


The Dragonborn - Book 1

by JFinne



Series: The Dragonborn - Books [1]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Canonical Character Death, Child Death, Complete, Dark, Death, Disturbing Themes, Elder Scrolls Lore, Funerals, Gen, Implied/Referenced Torture, Long, My First Fanfic, Nightmares, Plot, Psychological Torture, Serious, Some Humor, Torture, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-01-22 22:14:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 38
Words: 117,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21309463
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JFinne/pseuds/JFinne
Summary: A farmers' son, grieved by the death of his brother, seeks a source of strength to never experience a loved one's death again. Strength only The Companions can offer. As he walked the path little did he know he had started down a path destined in the Elder Scrolls long ago. And the strength he sought in order to protect, would only prove to cause more death.
Relationships: Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Ysolda
Series: The Dragonborn - Books [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982060
Comments: 28
Kudos: 32





	1. Skuldafn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is complete

I felt so tired...

Surrounded by mountains I stood at the foot of Skuldafn. An ancient Nord temple, built by the dragon cult to worship the dragons, and a gateway to Sovngarde. I was the first man to set foot here in thousands of years.

Gazing at the giant temple I felt admiration towards the ancient Nords. It must have taken a hundred years to build this temple, the devotion and work needed. The Nords of today's era have nothing in comparison.

I spotted two dragons. One clinging to the walls of the temple, the other on the mountainside to my right. Both had seen me arrive and watched me with their yellow reptilian eyes.

Facing two dragons I felt surprisingly calm. Being all alone for once I had no need to hold back.

"STRUN BAH QO!"

The words echoed against the mountains and for a moment all turned silent and calm. The sky darkened, as heavy dark clouds formed blocking out the sun. A vortex of thunderclouds took shape above my head and heavy rain started to pour down against the stony ground, hard winds caused my gray cape to pull left and right. The air filled with a slight electric current, raising the hairs on my arms ever so slightly.

The earlier quiet valley had become loud with pounding rain and the roar of thunder and lightning.

The two dragons roared in response to my thu'um and took to the sky. With a bright flash, all was white, then a lightning bolt split the sky only to hit the closest dragon, causing it to spasm in the air, lose height and violently smash into the temple wall, continuing to crash onto the stony ground, a mere forty meters in front of me.

I drew my bow and let loose an arrow towards the beast. The arrow struck the dragon on the left side of its neck and imbedded itself in its scaly skin. As expected a single arrow had no more effect on the dragon than a nasty insect bite, only causing to anger the beast. The dragon moved onto its feet, bending its neck to face me. Its left wing was oddly bent underneath its large body.

Did it break its wing in the fall?

Knowing the dragon could no longer fly I drew my great axe and sprinted forward. Suddenly a wall of fire rushed towards me as the dragon roared.

"FEIM!"

My body turned astral as the word left my lips, flames passing through me like vision through glass. Knowing fully well the dragon could not see me inside the flames I kept running into the continuous stream of fire, closing the distance. Suddenly the feeling of heat as my body started to materialize. I went into a slide under the flames, gliding under its head. I swung my great axe, mid slide, right to left across the dragon's throat, a tested weak spot of the dragons. The dragon jerked its head and tried to roar in pain, but nothing but a loud gurgling sound was heard as it spewed blood and fell to its side, gasping for air. Blood pulsated from its throat as the main artery was severed.

"One down, one to go." I thought.

The sounds of bare feet. I looked left towards the stairs to the temple and saw a group of draugr running towards me, already dangerously close.

"FUS RO DAH!"

A wall of air flew towards the group of draugr, sending them flying back. I could hear bones break as they landed hard on the stairs. Before they had risen I had already switched back to my bow. Four successive arrows pierced their skulls, the draugr had been dealt with.

It was hard to see anything in the clouded sky as the rain poured in my eyes. I couldn't spot the second dragon. Had it fled? Or was it simply taking cover from the lightning, waiting for the weather to soothe? Well, I had no time to wait. Switching back to my great axe I began to ascend the stairs.

The rain fell heavily against the stone stairs, giving off a calming sound as I walked. I was already soaked through my armor.

My throat felt like sandpaper, and as I swallowed a sharp pain stung down my throat, causing me to cough. The Graybeards had warned me of overusing the thu'um. The Storm Call shout alone was enough to have a negative effect, and followed by two shouts in such a short time, it had taken its toll on my throat.

Seems I'm at my limit. I have to be careful from now on.

As I reached the top of the temple I was faced with a large opening, large enough to hold a house. Along the sides were two high pillared walls. On top of which stood another two dragons, one on each side. In front of me across the opening, a Dragonpriest stood atop an altar of sort, facing away from me. In front of the Dragonpriest was a circular beam of shimmering yellow and blue that rose high into the sky. The colors moved and intertwined across the portal, like how I'd imagine flames move underwater.

The portal to Sovngarde... That's where I need to go. Only two dragons and a Dragonpriest in between.

The dragon on the left had a golden yellow hue to its scales, the one on the right a frost blue and white. They had both seen me but they didn't move. They seemed to study me with their eyes as if they expected something from me. Or waited for something. They gave off an unsettling feeling, but as long as they didn't move...

The Dragonpriest turned and looked at me. He too was a big threat. With the open ground and no places for cover, I would be an easy target for his magic and spells. But like with any spellcasting opponent the trick was to close the distance and hit hard. But he was too far away for a sprint. I would be dead before I'd reach him.

The Dragonpriest raised his staff in the air, electricity and sparks streamed up and down his staff. In his other hand, he conjured orbs of fire, circling in his palm. Ready to be hurled at me.

I had to close the distance. Fast.

With both my hands I lifted my great axe above my head. Could I manage another shout? There was no choice. I had to. Or it would all end. So close to the end... No. I won't let it! I lifted my legs.

"WULD NAH KEST!"

In the blink of an eye, I dashed across the open ground, stopping eye to eye with the priest atop the altar, locking eye contact. He twitched in surprise, and with no time for him to react my axe came plunging diagonally down. Breaking through his left collarbone. Digging into his dried flesh. Splitting his spine and smashing his already dead corpse onto the stone floor.

A metallic taste filled my mouth and I dropped to one knee, coughing blood. Every couch felt like razor blades down my throat, my eyes watered and my lungs felt as if on fire. This is it.

For a moment I kneeled, trying to regain my strength. I felt tired. So tired. And I didn't remember the last time I had felt any other way. I spat a mouthful of blood and gathered my strength to rise. Using my left foot I pulled my axe out of the dead priest and turned to face the two dragons. To my surprise, they still hadn't moved. Why? it had been the perfect opening. They were still only observing me. Was it fear, holding them back? A newfound sense of respect? Did they want me to challenge Alduin?

A feeling of relief washed over me as they didn't seem hostile. I knew I wouldn't be able to shout until my throat had healed, and had they decided to attack. It would have been a losing fight.

I sheeted my axe and turned to the portal, staring down into the whirlpool of yellow and blue. Simply breathing now hurt. How had faith placed me here? Had I ever truly had a choice? Or had my path always been chosen, like Delphine and Esbern so stubbornly believe? When had the cogs of my destiny truly begun to turn? Perhaps I wouldn't be standing here if I never had answered the Graybeards summons? If I hadn't been there to slay that first dragon? Or had it all began long before that?

I closed my eyes and took a deep pained breath, relaxed my body and blindly stepped forward. My feet left the ground as I stepped over the edge and I fell into the deep swirling portal...


	2. Rorikstead

"ERIIK!" His father shouted as he threw a bucket of dirty dishwater after the two boys who laughing ran out of the Frosfruit Inn.

"Ahhh, the smell!" I laughed, holding my nose as I ran.

"Did you see old man Jouane?! He puked all over the table!" Erik laughed as we jumped a fence into the farm opposite the Inn.

"Yuuck!" I laughed as we ran across the small field of potatoes and cabbages.

"Your dad was sooo pissed! His face was redder than my mom's after she leaves the sleeping chamber with my dad!" I laughed as we hid around the corner of a farmhouse.

"Hahaha! Yeah!" Erik crouched down to hide beside me.

Other than Erik there were no kids my age in Rorikstead. And so we had become friends by default. Erik ha freckles, copper red hair, and blue eyes. And was, according to my mother, a bad influence on me since he was a bit too generic for his own good, and a bit of a troublemaker. He lived with his father, Mralki, in the Frostfruit Inn. His mother had died birthing him leaving his father to care for him alone. But he was my best and only friend, and my childhood would have been quite dull if not for him.

This time Erik and I had hidden a dozen eggs on top of one of the large wooden beams that ran along with the ceiling of the Inn. And when, two months later, Mralki had decided to dust of the old beams the ¨fruits of our prank¨ had finally paid off as they all dropped to the floor and cracked open, filling the whole Inn with the stench of rotten eggs and death. One of our better pranks if I dare say so myself.

"Hey?… Don't you think he'll make you clean it up?" I asked Erik as we had stopped our giggling.

"That's why we're hiding." He said with a large smile. "He can't leave it there for the customers. So he'll have to clean it up himself," Erik smirked.

"That's true. But I'm not going back there for a long time." I said, making a face. "He's not going to calm down until he spanks both of us." I continued.

"We can go hunting with your brother then," Erik said as he realizing the truth of it. Better to keep away for some time. "Your dad can tell my dad we went away for a day or two," Erik said giving me a pleading look.

"My dad's already out hunting with my brother. It's just me and mom home. Besides, he always says I'm still too young to go hunting with them." I said, lowering myself down until my head was hanging between my knees.

I lived at a farm with my father, mother and older brother. The town called it Shoal's Rest Farm. Rorikstead was a small farming town in the Whiterun Hold, a day or two west of Whiterun itself, the capital of one of the many holds of Skrim. Rorikstead was known across the land for having the best soil in all of Skyrim, and unlike any other settlements, we managed to grow vegetables, berries, and different types of grain almost all around the year, except for winter. When harvesting season came we would pack and move the harvest by wagon to Whiterun. Jarl Balgruuf, the Jarl of Whiterun, always bought most of our harvest, and whatever he left we would sell in the city's marketplace.

The town consisted of the Inn and two farms, one bigger than the other, and at the north end of the town was a manor where Rorik, with his wife, lived. Rorik claims he founded the town after the Great War ended, about 15 years ago. But in truth Rorikstead had existed since the First Era, over 4000 years ago, but had then been known as ¨Rorik's Steading¨. So my dad said Rorik had most likely seen the likeness in their names and simply renamed the town after himself.

My father and Erik's had served under Rorik in the Great War. And Rorik had therefore sold our fathers a piece of land each for a very generous price. My family was, however, the smallest farm in Rorikstead and so we doubled as hunters as well as owned the town's only pair of cows, which provided milk to the town.

The surrounding lands to the east consisted of vast plains of yellow-brown tundra, reaching all the way past Whiterun, with a hill in between Whiterun and Rorikstead, making it impossible for the city and town to be seen from one another. To the south and west were huge highlands and hills, flowing like huge waves, and peaks, over the lands. And far past those highlands and hilltops was the Reach, another hold of Skyrim, with the ¨city of stone¨ Markarth as its capital. To the north, the horizon was covered by a wide mountain, blocking the view of the Sea of Ghosts, stretching as far as one could see to the west. If one climbed the nearby hill, just north of Rorikstead where a shrine of Akatosh, the chief deity of the Divines, had been raised in ages past, one could see the distant city of Solitude, the capital of both Haafingar Hold and all of Skyrim, resting on a cliff arching over the Karth River, which flowed into the Sea of Ghosts.

The sun had almost gone down over the horizon, coloring the sky scarlet red, when I rose from our hiding place.

"I must go home. Mom is probably waiting with supper already." I said as I looked down at Erik with my hands on my hips.

"Yeah,…" Erik said as he pulled himself up.

"I'm probably going to sneak into our storage shed and sleep there tonight. Dad's probably waiting for me with his broomstick. Sooo…" He said with a shamed look as I started to walk off. "Hey!" Erik shouted after me. "See you again tomorrow?!" He asked in a shout.

"Yeah! But you're coming to my place! Like I said! I'm not going to the Inn for a long time!" I shouted back with a smile.


	3. Rolf Shoal

The fields of Windhelm shone in all the colors of yellow and red as autumn had spread across Skyrim. The sky was crystal blue with large fluffy clouds slowly flowing across the sky.

We were collecting pelts for the winter, both for ourselves and to sell. We usually got a good price for them at the Whiterun market this time of the year, so we wanted to collect as many as we could before that elf Anoriath, a Bosmer living in Whiterun and our only competition in the area, got all the good ones.

"Shame father couldn't come along this year," I said as I strung up a deer pelt to dry.

"Well. Maybe he was afraid you'd confuse his other ass cheek for a deer," my brother smilingly said as he placed the cooking pot over the fire.

"That was an accident! And you know it!" I said as I threw a fist of gravel towards my brother.

"Oh come on!" he said, covering himself with his left arm. "It was funny! Now that I think of it. I haven't seen him sit down for over two weeks." My brother said, now smiling even wider towards me. "Think he takes a shit, standing up?" My brother asked with a look in his eyes and a grin on his lips. That comment was enough to send bot of us into laughter.

My brother was a handful of years older than me. Being born just as the Great War ended, about 20 years ago, shortly after our parents had bought land to farm from Rorik, he was the firstborn child. For a man who had just entered his twenties, he was large and more broad-shouldered than most men his age. Yet he had a kind face, with a strong jaw and happy clear brown eyes. Like me, he had our father's black hair, which he mostly wore loosely in his face. He had taken care of me for as long as I could remember. He always had a talent for hunting and so my father had taught him everything he knew, and my brother, in turn, taught me. Farming as well was one of his strengths, and our parents had often spoken by the dinner table how he one day would marry and take over the farm. Those had been happier times.

"Strange…" My brother said as he ran his fingers over some tracks, kneeling in the grass.

"What is?" I asked as I threw my bow over my shoulder and kneeled down beside him.

"See that? Those are wolf tracks. Four of them" He pointed at the tracks in the dirt. "But see here?... They all turned in their tracks. Wolfs usually don't do that, unless…"

My brother stood up, indicating for me to remain crouched in the grass by keeping one palm aimed toward me. His eyes were serious as he scanned along the grass line. Slowly his head turned left and right, making hush-sounds at me as he scanned the grass line in all directions. Suddenly a sharpness in his eyes. He slowly reached for his bow.

"Run…" He whispered to me, eyes still on what he had seen. "RUN!" He shouted as he lifted his bow, arrow on the string, and let it loose.

And I ran. As fast and long as I could, I ran. Straight home. Not daring to look back.

* * *

We had an old tree on our farm, it had been there as long as I can remember. Father used to say; ¨that tree was here before the farm, it will remain after.¨ And so it was a fitting spot for the family graves.

The sabercat hadn't left much for us to burry, and what was left of my brother had been placed in a larger urn, together with jewelry and personal items of his belonging.

Fittingly, it was raining as my father and I lowered the urn in the ground. My mother stood watching by the side. She was crying of course. Her hand was placed softly on an older grave. This wasn't the first child they had lost. My baby sister, Rinn, had died in decease at the age of two. I was too young at the time to remember much of her.

"In darkness, your light shines through,  
Warrior Goddess, for you we strike true.  
When hope is lost and war rages on,  
Warrior Goddess, hear our blessed song.  
With a Nord's death, fallen in battle,  
Warrior Goddess, guide us through shadow.  
Grant us courage to fight and sharpen or swords,  
Warrior Goddess, mother of Nords…"

My father sang the ¨Hymn of Kyne¨ as we buried the urn, one spade at a time. It was an old burial song, the only burial song he knew. In retrospective, I think he had sung that song far too many times during his time in the war. The rain covered it well, but I knew he was crying. He kept on singing as he kneeled down and carved his firstborns name into the gravestone.

##### \- HERE LIES ROLF SHOAL -  
\- BELOVED SON AND BROTHER -

* * *

Nord parents rarely showed much affection towards their children. That didn't mean they didn't love them. It simply wasn't Nordic custom. However, after my parents lost a second child they seemed to flush their love for three onto the remaining one. My father and I spent a lot of time together after that. We grew closer than ever. He taught me much, even things he hadn't taught my brother. It was he who first taught me how to hold a sword, as it seemed he had reconsidered his policy on teaching us… me, to fight.

I too started working the farm more, even without my father having to tell me to do so. And rarely did I complain about the work. As I had done so many times before. I even pushed myself to work with things he never before had asked of me.

My mother had grown more affectionate as well, kissing my forehead at every moment she got. I found it a bit annoying, but I didn't mind. She often asked me how I was, how my day had been, and what I worked on with father. She would even ask me of my evenings at the Inn with Erik, and of course, she'd tease me about girls.

My brother and sister before him were never forgotten. But life in Skyrim was hard, and we buried our grief quickly to get on with our lives. It was simply the Nord way of life. And so time went on.

* * *

"What's this nonsense I hear about you joining the Companions?!" My father said with a stern tone the dinner table.

"I want to get strong. And protect those I care for, Father."

"Then train here!" He shouted. "I didn't teach you to hold a sword so you could run off in search of danger!"

"They can teach me more. And I'll earn money that I'l send here."

"We earn enough for a decent life without you putting your life on the line!"

"I just... I don't want to see what happened to my brother, again… I was there, I could have saved him. Had I only been stronger..."

"That was many years ago." He interrupted me. "You were a child. You can't blame yourself for what happened to your brother."

"I know that! I know I can't change the past! But if I have the power to change the future… The Companions can help me get that power."

My father clearly disapproved. Burrowed brows, clenched jaw, and arms crossed over his chest.

"If I have the choice to save someone, and the power to do so…" I continued. "I'll never have to see someone I care for die again."

"You can't save everyone, son." My father said. Eyebrows burrowing deeper down his forehead. "And my last remaining child is not running off to die with some lowlife ruffians!"

"I've made my decision, father!" I said as I rose from my chair, my voice was loud enough to surprise even me.

"And I forbid it!" My father shouted as he, too, rose from his chair. "And that's the END of it!"

* * *

The water flowed across the floor as I emptied the bucket. We rarely used the basement nowadays but that didn't mean it didn't need cleaning every now and then.

My knees got wet as I kneeled down and grabbed the brush from the other bucket with both my hands and began scrubbing the dirty floor. The basement was as dusty as ever and the water quickly took on a muddy brown color as I scrubbed away.

Footsteps interrupted me as my father came walking down the stairs. He was carrying a large sack with something heavy inside. It gave off a heavy metallic sound as he set it down on the wooden floor. He gave me a look as he pulled the sack down, revealing a steel chest plate with attached shoulder plates. It was clearly second hand as it had a couple of dents and overall looked old and used.

I felt a bit confused as I stood up and brushed off my knees. But before I could ask about it my father sighed and stepped back, leaning comfortably against the staircase.

"I know you've made up your mind about the Companions. And that you're leaving soon… your mother told me." He started. "Took us six months to save up enough gold for this thing." He softly kicked the chest plate in front of him. "It's a bit wide in the shoulders, but I have a feeling you'll grow into it."

I looked at my father, and at the chest plate. I didn't know what to say. But at least this meant I had his blessing. "Father… I…" I said with a thick feeling of gratitude in my stomach.

"Listen, son…" He interrupted. "I don't agree with your decision. But you're not a child anymore, and I can't stop you if you wish to leave. So I thought I could either support you or disown you. I want to make the right decision…" He stared down at the chest plate for a moment before he returned his look back to me. "At least with this, I can make an attempt at protecting you. You can come along on my next trip to Whiterun, and I'll drop you off."

I didn't even finish cleaning the floors before I ran off to pack my stuff. Not that I owned a lot, or knew what to bring really. I started getting nervous as I packed. What if they didn't take me in? no, I'd just go back home. What if I wasn't cut out to be a Companion? What if I was? What if I'd really die? Enough with the thinking! I'll know when I get there. Yes, I'll know when I get there.

At that moment little did I know I'd had my first duel with Vilkas one week later.


	4. The Companions

Their history went back to the First Era when Ysgramor had come, from Atmora across the sea, with his five hundred Companions to rage war against the Snow Elves. Victorious, Ysgramor formed the first Empire in Skyrim and it's said all Nord kings are his descendants.

After the war against the Snow Elves, Ysgramor had ordered his Five Hundred Companions to seek forward and explore the lands. With their ships and longboats, they explored the coasts and settled where they saw fit. Some even carried their ships over the lands, in search of a place to call home. One of these men was ¨Jeek the River¨ who, with his twenty-two men, carried his longboat, Jorrvaskr, across Skrim and found the Skyforge in the midst of the tundra plains today known as the fields of Whiterun.

Seeing the Skyforge he decided to make it his home. So together with his men they flipped his longboat and built it into the roof of their mead hall and home, thus founding the city of Whiterun, and he named the mead hall after his ship of Atmoran wood, Jorrvaskr. And from their new home, they explored the land further and fought any remaining snow elves the came upon. And around the Skyforge and their mead hall, the city of Whiterun grew as more travelers and traders made it their home. And the ancient Companions of Jorrvaskr came to fight in battles and war for gold, turning them into honor-bound mercenaries, often facing fellow Shield-Sibling on the battlefield. Mryfwill, a Harbinger of old, in his wisdom came to swear an oath that the Companions would no longer take part in contracts of political nature, as to not fight their fellow members hired against one another. And so started the tradition of ¨Companion Neutrality.¨

Today, the Companions were a warrior clan and a band of mercenaries. They dedicated their lives to training and battle in order to perfect themselves, fighting for the sole reasons of honor and valor, to honor their ancestors and Nords of old. And upon death in battle, their souls would go to Sovngarde, the Nord afterlife, where they would make feast and battle, together with all who had, and would, die honorably in battle, for all of glorious eternity.

Though, due to their political neutrality, their contracts now consisted mostly of removing troublesome bandits, animals, trolls or occasional giant that caused problems in the different holds. And so some considered them to have fallen from their former glory, being nothing more than glorified mercenaries. No matter their opinions, the Companions were still honorable strong warriors, respected throughout Skyrim. And their songs of valor could be heard in most Taverns and Inns across the land.

* * *

And here I was! Climbing the stairs to Jorrvaskr, wearing the old slightly too big, armor my father had given me. As well as his old steel sword, from his time serving in the Imperial Legion. A rucksack on my bag containing only the essentials for the one day trip it had taken me and my father to come here by ox-wagon. Saying farewell to my mother hadn't been easy, but it was one. Erik had only been envious, as I told him I was leaving. But taking farewell of my father had been the hardest, perhaps because he was the one who had dropped me of outside the city walls.

I had never been so excited and nervous at the same time. And considering the big armor, I must have been a ridiculous sight. But I was determined to not let that get in my way. I don't know how their recruitment works, but I hoped the excitement in my eyes was enough. If not, the training with my father would certainly come to use. And I did consider myself quite strong for my age, as my brother had been before me.

As I entered the mead hall, that was Jorrvask, I was faced with a long hearth fire, glowing red with coal. A long table was placed around the hearth fire, except for in the front, and there were chairs for all its members surrounding the table. The hall was long and oval-shaped by the ceiling that was made from the former longboat. On the far side, to the right, there was a set of wooden stairs leading down to a basement. And to the far left, there was a door leading to another room, which I couldn't tell what contained.

Opposite the room across the hearth fire and table, there were two large decorated wooden doors, leading out to the backyard. The walls were decorated with banners, weapons, shields, and light-stands holding lit candles ran along the walls. Large wooden pillars held the ceiling in place and thick wooden beams ran along with the ceiling.

The floor around the hearth fire was made of cobblestone, but there were also wooden floors on platforms, no more than one stair step high, along the surrounding walls. Holding small tables, chairs, and bookshelves, fenced off from the central stone-floored dinner area.

As soon as I had entered, a fistfight had broken out in the room. It was a woman and a Dunmer man who went all out at each other. The brutality of their fight was enough to stop me in my tracks and I just stood watching, a bit in shock.

The other Companions had quickly gathered around the fight, but no one seemed to interfere as the two fighters were throwing insults and fists at each other as if they intended to kill one another. Yet the surrounding Companions acted as If it was their daily entertainment, betting gold, cheering, clapping hands.

I didn't know how to react so I just stood there and stared in confusion. That's when one of the Companions, who wasn't cheering or betting, spotted me.

For a moment he stood by, eyeing me up with his arms crossed. He had a strict, stern, and almost angry face with sharply focused eyes. He was balding on the top of his head but otherwise, he had short blond hair and a clean-shaven face.

He wore the famed gray Wolf-armor I had seen so many times on my journeys to Whiterun, to sell products and pelts from the farm, and at his hip was a polished sword.

He made a face, as if disapprove of something, and started walking towards me. The feeling of nervosity only increased as he came closer. I noted is left eye was white, blinded from an injury as a pale scar ran over it.

"Haven't seen your face before. State your business."

I didn't know what to say or do, so for a second I just stood like a fool, making a nervous face.

"Can I join the Companions?!" I stuttered nervously and exited, as polite I could.

His eyebrows furrowed down his eyes and he, again, made a disapproving look as he, again, eyed me up.

"So you think you have what it takes? Huh... Lucky for you, I'm not the one who makes that decision…" He almost looked angry as he signaled toward the stairs with a strict gesture. "Talk to Kodlak. Who knows, maybe he's in a generous mood."

* * *

"I'm looking for… Kodlak?" I asked an old lady as I came down into the cellar. She was brushing the stone floor, decorated with red carpets with golden patterns.

She gave me a curious look before she with a smile pointed her hand down the hallway. "His room's at the end of the hallway, child. The door is open, so you just walk right in."

I gave her a quick courtesy nod before I walked off.

The basement seemed to serve as a living quarter. There was a long hallway with stone-arcs over it as a ceiling. Shields decorated the rounded walls and the side of the hallway had tables, boxes, and barrels placed against them. Serving as a makeshift storage area.

There was an open door on one side, leading into what I saw was a shared bedroom. And as I walked further down the hallway it split to the left and right, where more doors could be seen, these ones closed. In the middle of the split, there was a large open double door, facing the length of the hallway, and I could hear a conversation taking place inside.

I didn't want to eavesdrop, so I leaned in and knocked on the open door.

Two men sat at a corner table in the room. The room was filled with bookshelves, decorative weapons, a work desk, and a table with chairs. A chandelier with lit candles hung from the ceiling and the floor was covered in the same golden patterned red carpets as the hallway.

They both turned their heads, as I had knocked, and looked at me. Like the man before they both eyed me up.

"A stranger comes to our hall." The old man said, keeping me in eye contact.

I guessed he had to be Kodlak as he looked to be in his fifties. He had long thick white hair, in a braid, running down the back of his head, and a thick white beard that reached down to his chest. He wore the same Wolf-armor as the man I had met earlier and seemed surprisingly fit for a man his age, broad shoulders and thick arms. He must be strong, to live to his age in this profession.

I nervously walked into the middle of the room and faced the old warrior, straightening my back.

"I would like to join the Companions." I said nervously, again as polite as I could.

"Would you now?" He answered as he started to stroke his beard with his left hand. "Here, let me have a look at you." He rose from his chair and circled me, eyeing me up and down.

I don't know why, but I held out my arms from my sides and nervously turned my head after him as he circled me. I felt ridiculous. This had been a bad idea.

He stopped in front of me and leaned forward as he took a deep look into my eyes. His eyes were sharp, focused, and the wrinkles around them showed clearly as he looked at me. I got the uncomfortable feeling he was staring straight into my soul. And suddenly I found I had forgotten to breathe as he ¨hummed¨ and turned back to sit down in his chair.

"Hm… Yes,… perhaps,… a certain strength of spirit." He said as he started stroking his beard again.

The other man turned his head toward Kodlak and gave him a confused look.

When I had entered the room I had thought him to be older. But now that I stood so close to them, he didn't look much older than me. Clear silver-blue eyes. Black hair, that he wore over his ears, reaching down to the back of his neck. And a strong jaw. The characteristics of his face were... well... I admitted to myself that he didn't look that bad.

"Master, you're not truly considering accepting him?" He asked, making a disapproving face.

"I am nobody's master, Vilkas," Kodlak answered, returning his look. "And last I checked, we had some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire burning in their hearts."

"Apologies..." Vilkas said, straightening his back. "But perhaps this isn't the time. I've never even heard of this outsider." Vilkas gestured toward me as he looked at Kodlak.

"Sometimes the famous come to us. Sometimes men and women come to us to seek their fame. It makes no difference. What matters is their hearts." The way he spoke sounded as if he was trying to convince Vilkas, but I got the feeling he was telling.

"And their arm…" Vilkas said in a low voice as he turned his head towards me and again eyed me up with a look of disapproval. The way e looked at me felt insulting. As if he thought himself my better even though we looked the same age.

"Of course," Kodlak said, turning his attention bac to me. "How are you in battle, boy?"

I had never been in a battled. And the only training I had ever gotten was from my father, which hadn't been too often. I got the feeling Kodlak would see straight through a lie. He seemed the sort. So I decided to tell the truth.

"I have much to learn."

"That's the spirit!" Kodlak said in a loud voice and clapped his hands once. "Vilkas, take him out to the yard and see what he can do," Kodlak said as he gave Vilkas a playful push on his shoulder, with his fist over the table.

"Aye…" Vilkas sighted as he reluctantly rose from his chair.


	5. Duel of acceptance

Arrogant jerk. Carrying his carefree let's-get-this-over-with attitude as he led on. He hadn't even so much as looked at me as we walked.

The courtyard behind Jorrvaskr held a training area, dummies, archery targets, and an open area for sparring. It was right next to the city wall and hadn't the wall been in the way, I imagine it would have been quite a view; Since the city of Whiterun rested atop a large hill.

"Show me what you got. I can take it," Vilkas said as we entered the sparring area.

Like I noted inside, he didn't look much older than me, two maybe three years older. His eyes were clear now that we were outside in the sunlight. I hadn't noticed it inside, but his silver-blue eyes had dark rings under them as if he was sleep-deprived. But they still seemed more than alert. He was a bit shorter than me and not as broad as some Nords tended to be. His physic was fit, more fit than anyone I knew. He too was wearing the gray Wolf-armor, which I had noted not all the Companions wore.

He had a certain way of looking at me. On one hand he looked tired, but on the other hand, there seemed to be plenty of thought behind his eyes. He seemed to be sharp. The calculating sort. I suppose he must be popular with the ladies.

Vilkas picked up a shield from a rack nearby and walked to the center of the sparring area. He took up a stance and gave me a look.

Shield only? wasn't he going to draw his sword? Did he really think me that weak? I'll show him. I'll show how strong I am.

I felt pissed as I drew my father's sword. I hadn't even noticed some of the other Companions had come out into the courtyard and were taking their seats by the tables on the porch.

If I hurt him, I win, I thought as I took up the stance my father had taught me.

Other than training with my father, this was the first time I faced another man. A Companion none the less. I had to make a good impression.

The fact that he hadn't drawn his sword pissed me off. But I felt confident on my feet. From my childhood hunting with my brother, Erik and my father, I knew to move in accordance with my prey. And at this moment… Vilkas was my prey. I needed him to be.

The neck is a weakness in all creations… That is where I will aim.

I started to move. Slowly I circularly stepped right, in the opposite direction of his shield. I'd create an opening. Vilkas followed in sync to the left. Footwork in progress. He looked calm, almost bored. I couldn't help but feel underestimated. It was annoying. I'd use that to his weakness. I had seen this pattern many times before. Deer confidently knowing they would outrun a wolf, only to be cornered by the pack. Sabercats circling hunters searching for a weak spot only to fall for traps laid in advance.

I can use his arrogance against him.

Man is but an animal, and animals can be outwitted. And so can Vilkas.

"Offence is the best defense," My father had taught me. And so I decided to move.

I took a quick step left and swung my sword down towards his right leg, forcing him to move his shield down. That left his head open for an attack. Since my attack was nothing more than a feint there was no power behind my strike and I could quickly lift my sword upward toward my left shoulder, above my head and swing down. Striking from above toward his head with a grin on my face.

I had him!

Suddenly he disappeared from my vision and my sword hit the dirt where he had stood. I instantly felt a knee to my stomach, causing me to lose my breath and bend over forward, grasping for air.

There was a cracking sound as the edge of his shield hit the back of my head and my vision flashed white. Then it all got blurry and I saw nothing but bright lights dance before me. Then, then all went dark.

The first thing I heard as I came to was people laughing. A blurred shadow above me lifted me up and put me down on a chair.

Vilkas?

My head pounded and the back of my neck ached as I touched it with my hand. I took a while for my eyes to readjust, but as I came to I saw Vilkas sitting on a chair before me. His chair was turned over backward and he sat, wide-legged, with his arms crossed on top of the backrest. Resting his chin on his arms as he looked at me with his carefree indifferent look.

"First rule in a fight; never let your opponent out of sight."


	6. Whelp

The following weeks were tough. Most of the others were kind, and it hadn’t taken me long to settle in my new home. But training was murder. At the moment it was the only thing they had me do and my body would ache every night when I went to bed, and ache still when I awoke the next morning. I didn't know if Skjor was trying to train me or kill me. It was almost as if he didn’t want me here. But stubborn as I am, I made it my personal quest not to let him break me.

I had been with the companions for a bit over a month now and gotten to know the lay of the place, as well as their rules and customs. The Companions didn’t have any real form of leadership, and so every member had as much a say as anyone else. No one was told what to do, and they all decided themselves on how to best search, or fight, for honor and valor. And whenever a contract arrived it would be placed on a wall in the mead hall for anyone to grab.

But since they all had joined in search of honor and glory, and to master their sword arm, they all shared a common goal. So they got along surprisingly well and behaved in such ways as to not ¨dishonor¨ themselves and, or their fellow shield-siblings. And everyone proudly earned their keep.

Even though there was no form of ranks amongs the Companions, it didn’t take long for me to notice they were split in two groups, those who were members of the ¨Circle¨, and those who weren't.

The members of the Circle were easy enough to spot. Unlike the others, they had all been given the characteristic gray Wolf-armor to wear, made by the smith of the Skyforge, Eorlund. But the Circle, like said, had no real ranking power, and so their positions were more one of status to show their time as members. It also seemed to come with a number of responsibilities and they also served as guides and role models to the other Companions. The members of the Circle also all had their own rooms in the living quarters, in the basement, and did not sleep in the shared bedroom with me and the others.

The members of the Circle were first and foremost Kodlak Whitemane, the old warrior who had convinced the others to let me join in the first place. He was called the Harbinger and acted as the face of the Companions. He also acted as a guide and adviser for the whole group, and they often came to him asking for his wisdom. He was kind and wise. He even started to take his time to teach me how to read and write.

Then there was Skjor. The balding man I had first met, upon entering Jorrvaskr. He seemed to be around my father's age, maybe a bit older, in his early forties but was, like Kodlak, surprisingly fit considering his age. He was strict to the point of military, and it seemed he had taken upon himself to care for my training. My ¨brutal¨ training that is.

I didn't really like the man. And honestly, he made me slightly nervous. I always got the feeling he was trying to ¨break¨ me during practice. As if he was trying to make me give up and leave. But I figured if I could just keep up with his torturous training I would impress enough for him to accept me. That said, he wasn't a bad trainer though. On the contrary. After my first training with him, he had already gotten rid of my blink-reflex and improved my stance notably.

Though I was sore for a week after that…

Then there was Aela the Huntress, a female warrior in her early thirties. She had brown-red long hair and sharp silver-gray eyes. But unlike the other members in the Circle she didn't wear the wolf-armor. She wore a lighter version made mostly from leather, furs, and hides. It was only plated on her shoulders, chest, and hips. I could tell it was a design for agile movements. And since she was more the ¨hunter¨ type, she favored a bow and needed the extra quickness to draw distance between herself and her opponents. I watched her spar once, and she was surprisingly fast with a sword and shield.

She was often out hunting or on missions, and I had only gotten to meet her in person once. Like Sjor, she hadn’t seemed impressed with me. And she hadn’t hesitated to order me to fetch her shield from the Skyforge. I didn’t like being ordered around, but I didn’t want to cause a scene either. So I did as she said, even though she had made fun of me about my duell with Vilkas. 

And last, of the Circle, there were the twin brothers, Vilkas and Farkas. They weren’t much older than me, two maybe three years, so they were in their early twenties. They had both been born into the Companions and had trained since they were old enough to hold a sword.

Because we were so close in age I found our difference in skill almost infuriating. I didn’t even stand a chance against either of them. But I thought that if I trained hard enough, I’d catch up to them one day.

I admit I had misjudged Vilkas. After my duel with him I had believed him to be ¨high of himself¨ and arrogant. But as I came to know him better I realized he was quite smart, educated even. And what I had thought to be arrogance had simply been him already knowing I wouldn't stand a chance. He was honest like that and true to himself. And I came to realize he hadn't held back in our duel because he found it disrespectful and dishonorable toward his opponent. In that case, me. I had to admit… I found myself starting to respect the man. And because of that, I made it my personal goal to one day return the favor… of knocking him out in a duel.

Farkas was kind. He had welcomed me like a brother from the get-go and strongly thought of the Companions as his family. And so in his eyes, I had become part of his family the moment Kodlak had sent me out to duel Vilkas. We got along well. He even joined in my training every now and then. Though, to my annoyance,, he made the training seem easy.

Like his brother he had black hair hanging lose to his shoulders and silver-blue eyes. But his face was far more contoured, rough, and muscular. His physique was that of a brute. Broad shoulder, thick arms, wide back, and chest. And he wielded a large sword that was clearly not made for a normal man. I was big for my age but certainly not larger than him.

I also had quickly come to realize he wasn't the ¨sharpest of tools.¨ Most of the time he didn't get jokes or simply stood around with a dumb look on his face. The others often made fun of him, both behind his back and to his face, for being… ¨not smart.¨ But he would always play it off and laugh with them. He had a good heart.

¨Skjor says I have the strength of Ysgramor, and my brother his smarts.¨ He had told me when he showed me where I'd sleep.

But he did have his rougher side. One evening he had taken me along to the Bannered Mare, the Tavern of Whiterun, to get rid of some troublemaking drunk. The drunk had insulted Farkas' intellect, and Farkas had just snapped… He walked up to the man and reached forward as if to shake his hand, and crushed the drunken man's hand simply by squeezing it in his own. After that, he beat the man senseless and threw him out into the market place head first. I must have imagined it, but for a second it seemed as if he's eyes had been glowing yellow with rage.

"Some people don't think I'm smart. Those people get my fist." He had said, as we walked back to Jorrvaskr.

I learned three things that evening.

One; Farkas has a short temper.

Two; Only the Companions are allowed to make fun of him.

And three; I never want to get on his bad side…

Then there were the Companions who, like me, weren't part of the Circle. They all strove to perfect their war arts, fight for honor, and make a name for themselves. Whenever a new contract came up on the wall they would all gather to quickly grab for themselves the most exiting one. But whenever a contract was taken by someone they would ask for a ¨Shield-sibling¨, someone of the Companions who were willing to accompany them on their mission. If the contract holder didn't like his Shield-sibling he had the right to refuse him or her and ask for a new one, but no one ever went on a mission without a shield-sibling. Both for safety reasons and per tradition.

Aethis had been there the longest of the non-Circle embers. Well over 5 years. He was a Dunmer, also known as Dark elf. I had never met a Dunmer before. So meeting him had been… interesting. Dunmers had large tilted eyes that glowed red like burning coal and their skin was ashen gray. his skin almost looked rough, but when I had shaken his hand it hadn’t felt any different than any other skin I had ever touched. Aethis had long rust-red hair, usually held in a knot on top of his head. And he was skinnier than most Companions but made up for it in speed and agility. He once bragged about taking down a giant by rolling behind the giant's feet, severing the Achilles tendons, and rolling away. And as the giant dropped to its knees, he had jumped on top of the giant and slit its throat.

¨Even an Elf can be born with the heart of a Nord,¨ was how he had introduced himself.

I learned the Dunmers originated from Morrowind, a large country over the mountains bordering Skyrim to the east. And he told me they all had ashen-gray skin and red glowing eyes. He also told me that a long time ago they had been a race called the Chimer, who wore golden skin and golden eyes. But due to their search for godhood they were cursed by Azura herself, Deadric Prince of Dusk and Dawn and one of the Dunmers many Gods. And so their skin turned gray and their eyes red so they would forever be reminded of their mistake.

When the Red Mountain had erupted on Vvardenfell, a large volcano island in Morrowind, most Dunmers had to flee their homes. And they mostly moved west to Skyrim, since there was only sea to the north and east.

I later heard that Aethis had ¨Crawled west out of the wasteland¨, as he had put it. But the Red Mountain had erupted over two hundred years ago, meaning he as well had to be well over two hundred years old. Something he told me wasn’t an uncommon age among the elven races.

Aethis seemed to take his membership with utmost seriousness. He trained more than most of us and he was always the first one to grab a new contract. It wasn't a secret he aimed to be the first Elven-Harbinger. So I came to think he felt the need to overcompensate for being an Elf.

Njada Stonearm joined half a year after Aethis. So the two of them knew and trusted each other well, and usually worked together as shield-siblings. However, they both had short tempers and always tended to lead each other a bit too much. Something that caused them to regularly go at each other's throats.

It was the two of them who had been fighting when I had first arrived.

Njada had blond short hair and a small feminine face. But her expression was never that feminine. She usually had a grumpy, stern, face and she was in age closer to Aela. Aela was pretty much the only Companion Njada truly got along with. I figured it was because they were both strong female warriors.

Njada was a Shieldmaiden. So she specialized in a short sword and shield, and her skill with the shield alone was by far the most rumored in Jorrvaskr. When teaching me how to use a shield, Skjor once spoke of how Njada would ¨dig her feet into the ground¨ and stand firm as a statue as she let her opponents tire themselves out against her shield. And when they had no energy left she'd just ¨scoop them of the ground¨.

Njada and I, however, didn't seem to get along to well, but not because of lack of effort, but rather because she was… well she was a bitch… She respected strength. And if someone was weaker than her she considered them to be a ¨waste of breath¨, no matter how close the gap in skill was. She also didn't mind speaking her mind, and I once heard her ¨bite Skjors ears off¨ when he had asked her to simply check the handle of his shield.

"If Eorlund made it, it's more likely you're gripping it wrong." she had snapped.

I knew there wasn’t a rank boost to being in the Circle, but still… I wouldn't dare insult Skjor to his face, Circle or not.

Torvar was a different one. I quite honestly didn't know why he had stayed as long as he had. He constantly skipped out of training and seemed far more interested in Jorrvaskr's mead storage. He had joined a bit over a year ago and had since then constantly complained about not ¨climbing in fame,¨ but at the same time, he didn’t even make an effort towards that. 

But he wasn’t weak. He would often get in barfights, and oddly enough he never lost. So he wasn’t weak. He was simply… lazy. I was sure that if he would only take his training more seriously, he would certainly gain the renown he sought.

Torvard sported a full blond beard and had his blond hair in a knot dropping down the back of his head. His eyes were sky blue but almost always bloodshot from him being hangover. I wasn’t sure of his age, but by the way he behaved, I didn’t think he was that much older than the twins. Like Njada he used light leather armor but he preferred a one-handed axe in battle.

I had come to wonder if he drank to forget some old trauma or sorrow. But as time went by I realized the man simply and wholeheartedly liked to get drunk. And it wasn’t that bad. He was the fun one. Always laughing, cheering, and telling jokes. He was also quite the singer. Filling the mead hall with song almost every evening, and usually the others didn’t mind joining in. 

So Jorrvaskr wasn’t all training and battle. There was plenty of song and laughter too. 

"Maybe that's why they had kept him? To keep the spirit up." I had thought one evening.

Lastly there was Ria. She was young, sixteen or seventeen at the most. She had dark gray, almost black, hair set in braids down the sides of her face and head. She had joined the Companions just before me. But unlike me, who had had some training with my father, she had started from scratch. Though she was very enthusiastic, energetic, and positive. Njada would usually train with her, and she always took training with a smile.

She said she had dreamed about becoming a Companion since she was a little girl, and that her dream was to become as famed a Companion as Aela, who she seemed to adore.

I didn't think she was lying, but I did think there was more to her joining the Companions than search for fame. After all, she had a tendency to turn red and start giggling whenever Vilkas would enter the same room as her.

But Jorrvaskr wasn't home only to the Companions. A few people lived here who weren't Companions. But they too all earned their keep, though in other ways.

Vignar Gray-Mane lived there as well. He was a retired Companion, one of the few who had been strong enough to live to old age. He had been a Commander in the Imperial army for thirty years, but after the Great War and the signing of the White-Gold Concordant, which he disagreed with, he put that behind him. He looked to be at least twenty years older than Kodlak.

He was quite the storyteller and historian of Jorrvaskr. Vilkas, who had an interest in history, would spend a lot of time with him. Though I found Vignar often repeated his stories. I guessed his age was starting to make him senile, so he forgot which stories he had told or not. Since he had a hard time walking stairs he had his living quarters in the western room of the mead hall, and not in the basement with me and the others.

The Gray-Manes were an old family, going back to the founding days of Whiterun. So they were quite respected in all of Whiterun. They had once been close to another founding family, the Battle-Borns, but unlike the Gray-Manes, the Battle-Borns had agreed with the White-Gold Concordant and after that, the two families had turned into bitter rivals. Vignar could often be heard trash talking them publicly.

Since Vignar was too old to fully care for himself he also had his ¨aid¨, Brill, living with him in Jorrvaskr. I never got to know Brill that well, but he seemed to handle Vignars everyday businesses and needs.

Then there was Vignars younger brother, Eorlund Gray-Mane. He worked the Skyforge outside of Jorrvaskr and was considered the best blacksmith in all of Skyrim. He made it clear to me he wasn't a Companion himself, but he found great pride in equipping us with his Skyforge steel.

He lived in the Wind District, the middle layer of Whiterun, with his wife and three children. He was in his late fifties and, like Vignar, had thick white hair running down to his chest.

And lastly, there was Tilma ¨the Haggard¨, an old woman who had been with the Companions since she was a young girl. She was truly old. She had gray hair and a wrinkly old face with brown dusty eyes. If I had to guess she would be around the same age as Vignar, but Vignar had said she had been there even before his time.

She served as a maid, cleaning lady, cook, and any other house chores she could come up with. Some had come to call her ¨Mother of Jorrvaskr¨. She was kind and caring and had the habit of treating everyone as her children, even Kodlak. But she also had her stricter side. Let’s just say that those who were late for dinner would go unfed.


	7. Hunting Trip

Slowly I inhaled as I pulled back the string and steadied the arrow. The deer hadn't noticed me and stood perfectly still by the riverbed. I carefully adjusted my body to a more stable position and lifted my bow higher towards my face for a better line of sight, pulling the string further back. Hunting was all about patience, awaiting the perfect moment. I exhaled slowly as I prepared to let the arrow loose.

The deer suddenly lifted its head in response to a twig breaking behind me. I let the arrow loose but the deer had already moved aside and the arrow flew past it into the river as the deer ran away. Quickly disappearing upstream the river and out of my sight.

"What was that?! Didn't you use to be a hunter before you joined us?" Ria laughed sarcastically behind me.

"Maybe if you didn't move like a bear? We would have had food right now," I said with an annoyed tone.

I had been with the Companions for over half a year now. Skjors training had shown quite the results and my shoulders, back, and arms had gained muscles to the point that the armor my father had given me no longer was too large, in fact, some parts had started to chafe here and there, so Eorlund had helped me make some adjustments. Also, I no longer used my father's short sword, but instead I had asked Eorlund to make me one like Farkas had. A large two-handed sword not made for a normal man. It had taken some time getting used to a new sword art and technic, but Skjor had thought Farkas to use his so he had no problem in switching his teaching strategy for me. But I wasn't wearing my heavy armor today. I wore something lighter since Ria and I had been sent on a hunting trip.

Ria was a few years younger than me, but she had joined the Companions just a few months before I did. And so, the two of us usually got paired up to do the simpler tasks. And for the Companions, simpler meant boring... Like hunting, gathering water, chopping wood, polishing armor and weapons, delivering letters and so forth.

"Lighten up! No need to be so serious all the time." She said with a childish smile. "You know what you need? A woman! Someone to help you relax every now and then… And maybe pull that stick out of your ass"

"Pull that stick out of my ass?!" I laughed.

"She could even help you put it back in. If you're into that sort of thing?" She jested with a wink.

"oh no, Ria. Have you been reading the teachings of Dibella again? Or did you read Torvar's copy of The Lusty Argonian Maid to keep your mind off of Vilkas?" I teased.

"See! That's better! No more frowning brows or harsh looks. And for your information, the Lusty Argonian Maid is a very… ¨educational¨ read," She said, blushing slightly as an embarrassed smile spread across her face.

Even thou Ria was loud, clumsy, could never keep still and had an annoying tendency to make every job harder than it had to be. We had fun. She had a certain humor that was unfitting both a warrior and a young woman. But somehow she made it work.

"But you doo need a woman thou," she continued. "You know what you should do? You should get an amulet of Mara. Parade around the marketplace and see if she bites" She said with a tease in her eyes.

"She?" I asked, raising my eyebrows.

"Oh don't try me!" She giggled all girly-like. "I heard how you went out of your way to get Ysolda that mammoth tusk. You think she really gave it to the khajiits?" She continued, smiling even wider.

"Ria... just what are you implying?..." I could feel I had a ridiculous smile on my face as I shook my head and asked.

"Ohh I don't knooow? Maybe she kept it for herself? Maybe she likes biiig stroong men. As in… under the belt big…" She jested.

"Ria… You…" I was truly at a loss of words.

"Hit a sore spot did I? Is that why you prefer a greatsword? Compensating much?" she continued to jest.

"Is there no limit to your jests?!" I laughed. "And no! I'm quite satisfied with what I have under my belt!"

"I'm sure you are," she laughed.

We both laughed for a while.

"So are we spending another night in Riverwood?" Ria asked as she had managed to stop laughing.

"Yeah, we might as well go back. I'm quite sure we have scared off any game in the area anyway. We'll have to try again tomorrow."

I gathered my gear and we started walking towards Riverwood. I was already thinking about warm soup and mead at the Sleeping Giant Inn when Ria interrupted my thoughts.

"Soo?..." she said.

"...What?"

"Ysolda?" she said with a smile.

"OH SHUT UP!..."


	8. First Blood

Farkas had asked me to be his Shield-brother. He had accepted a contract from Jarl Balgruuf to handle some bandits that tended to raid travelers and traders coming in from Dawnstar, the capital of the Pale, the Hold north of Whiterun Hold.

Needless to say, I was eager for my first real contract. So far I had only gotten to ¨look tough¨ at then in, handle some disagreements, and chop wood. Mostly chop wood...

The reason for that was Skjor. He hadn't allowed me to take part in any real contracts until he felt I was ready. I had come to look up to him, but at the same time, that was one of the things I resented him for.

I'm Strong. I know I am. Why wouldn't he allow me to prove it?

But now he had allowed me. And I was eager to prove myself. Perhaps he had come to believe in me. Accept me even. In his own way. And I guess it didn't hurt that Farkas was the one who had asked me to be his shield-brother on this one. And perhaps that was the reason Skjor believed me safe enough to allow me to go.

Farkas had told me to pack for at least two days, and so I was both excited and nervous when I packed my gear. Food, lantern, oil, equipment, arrows, my sword...

"See you in the mead hall later?" Torvar asked as he came up to my bed.

"Not today. I'm moving out with Farkas in a moment."

"Maan… he asked you to be his Shield-brother?" Torvar was drunk... His eyes said it all. "Why didn't he ask me?" He continued as he sat down on my bed with a disappointed look.

"Well maybe if he saw you in training sometimes, he would've," I answered as I filled up my lantern with oil.

"Oh come on. You know I'm good in a fight" He said. His eyes were as bloodshot as ever and he slurred when he spoke.

"Haven't seen it yet," I answered nonchalantly.

"Don't be like that. I've been here longer than you." I could tell he was getting pissed.

"And still I could take you," I stated as I pulled my rucksack over my shoulders. He didn't seem too pleased about that comment. But for some reason, he let it slip.

"Well... guess I'll drink at the Bannered Mare tonight." He rose from my bed with a slightly pissed face. I watched as he left the room with a sulky face before I too decided to leave.

I should go tell Farkas I'm ready to leave.

The journey to the bandit camp would take at least one day, so Farkas and I had to spend at least one night in the woods. Farkas was surprisingly talkative as we walked, though he wouldn't hold any lengthy conversation. He would tell me things such as, what he liked, disliked, the creatures and men he had fought. But he also spoke highly of his brother, Vilkas. And how he grew up with the Companions and knew no other life. I asked him about his father, but he simply answered that he didn't remember him and that the Companions were his family. Farkas was always the honest type.

When we put up our camp for the night, I realized Farkas was a worthless field cook. I had brought a cooking pot along, but Farkas seemed to settle with simply holding any type of food over the fire until he thought it to be done. Seemed he didn't mind bloody meat either. I told him he would get a bad stomach, but he just kept eating and said that he ¨didn't get sick anymore.¨ I knew that wasn't possible, but he was insistent on it.

When I lied down in my tent and stared up at my oil lamp, hanging from the tent ceiling, I couldn't help but feel like I was out hunting with Erik, my father, and my brother again. I hadn't seen them since I left Rorikstead almost a year ago. Mum must miss me. I leaned up and extinguished the lantern and laid back down. I hadn't felt homesick once since I left. But now I did.

I missed my mom's cooking.

Farkas had some mead and dried meat that we shared in the morning. it was a bit too salty, but it did beat his undercooked meat. After our quick breakfast, we tore down the camp and got back on the road. "It's not far now," he said.

The sun was high in the blue sky when we arrived at the bandit camp, and there was snow everywhere. Not at all like in Whiterun. I had been much to the north, but it was insane how quickly it got colder. From the autumn of Whiterun, it seemed only one day north had taken us into winter.

The bandits had made an old fort in the woods their home. I was nervous. This would be my first real battle, and I hadn't realized how nervous that would make me. Perhaps Skjor had been right. No! this is my chance. Just remember his training. Stay calm.

"So how do we do this?" I asked Farkas as he walked in front of me. I felt we were dangerously close to the fort right now, yet Farkas walked on.

"Let's go and introduce ourselves." He said, turning his head back over his shoulder to show a smile. "All that ¨cloak and daggers¨ isn't for us… just stay behind me and you'll be fine." He said as he walked through the snow towards the broken, open, main gate.

Introduce ourselves? Was he insane? There had to be at least a dozen of them in there. And only two of us!

"HEY! MILK DRINKERS!" He shouted as he drew his large sword, still walking forwards.

Two men showed themselves on top of the wall and one man reacted in the entrance to see what the ruckus was all about. Before they could yell at us to ¨get lost¨ Farkas turned into a sprint towards the man in the entrance. The tree men jerked in surprise and drew their weapons, the two men on the wall wielded bows and the man in the entrance took out a club.

Ysmirs beard... this is it...

I pulled out my bow and reached for an arrow. My hands were shaking and my legs seemed to have trouble with starting to run. I had to keep up with him, but my armor was heavy and gnawed at my joints as I ran. And the snow didn't help either.

This was the first time I had seen Farkas fight outside of training. He was fast. To fast for his size. When an arrow came flying he would slightly turn his body, mid-sprint, and make sure the arrows hit the plated parts of his wolf-armor. They flew off in splinters as they did so. I could never do that. His reflexes seemed inhuman.

With the three men focusing on Farkas I run behind after him to get inside the fort as quickly as possible. My heart was hammering and my legs burned with adrenaline. How would I even be able to aim my bow?

Farkas had reached the man by the entrance and ran straight into him before he could react. His sword going into his stomach. Farkas lifted the screaming man into the air with his sword and threw him to the ground by swinging his sword to his side. I knew Farkas was strong. But to lift a full-grown man like that? I couldn't believe what I saw.

But I didn't allow the sight to stun me and I quickly moved underneath the entrance where we were safe from the archers.

"You draw their attention and I'll go up the stairs," Farkas said as he pointed at the stairs halfway across the courtyard. And before I could say anything Farkas ran off towards the stairs. I stood with my back against the wall and stared down at the dead man, who was lying in a growing pool of blood. He had a horrified expression on his face.

What have I gotten myself into?

I clutched my bow and shakingly nocked an arrow in place. I had to support Farkas. I leaned around the corner and took aim.

The two men on top were already firing arrows at Farkas who blocked them in the same manner as earlier. It was insane. I lifted my bow and took aim. Breath. I let loose my arrow towards the first man and to my surprise, it hit. It hit him in his side and by instinct, he grabbed the side of his waist where my arrow had struck. The other man turned towards me and lifted his bow.

Shit!

I quickly took cover back around the corner and arrow flew by where I just had been and landed hard in the snow in front of the opening.

I had hit? I had hit!

That was the first time I had ever injured a man. But oddly enough I didn't feel any different. Skjor had told me people tend to ¨freeze up¨ when first injuring or killing a man. But I didn't feel any different. In fact, I felt good. Exhilarated even.

I nocked another arrow on my bow and leaned back around the corner. Farkas had already dealt with the man I had injured and was moving towards the last one. Again I lifted my bow and let loose another arrow towards the remaining man. Again it was a hit. He screamed in pain and anger as Farkas came up close and finish him off with a slash.

This was insane.

Farkas came walking down to the courtyard as I waited for him, blood dripping from his sword.

"Well done." He said with a smile. "The contract said there is six men, so we'll have to go inside to finish off the rest," he said as he signaled towards the door to the only stone building in the fort.

Six men? why hadn' he told me so earlier? I thought there had been more. It had felt like it.

When we entered the building we came into a large dining area. Two men were over by the far table, talking and drinking, and obviously drunk. One was standing and the other one was sitting.

They both reacted with confusion as the saw us. Farkas instantly spurted towards them.

I couldn't be slower so I lifted my bow and let loose an arrow towards the standing man. I missed. Of course I missed!

I fumbled for another arrow as Fakas sprinted across the dining hall and was upon the sitting man just as he had risen. The man had not yet had time to react to what had happened and had a confused look on his face as he reached for his sword. Farkas swung his sword and the man's head fell to the floor even before his body did.

I lifted my bow and let loose another arrow.

The remaining man lifted his sword to charge for Farkas. My arrow hit his thigh as he charged, not at all where I had aimed, and he stumbled to the floor. Farkas instantly lifted his sword and stabbed down to finish off the man.

Farkas gave me a grinning look as he drew his sword out of the man's body. As if he was enjoying himself. Was this what it meant to be a Companion? To enjoy battle? Death? But it felt good. It felt good to know I wasn't useless in a battle. even though Farkas had been the one doing all the killing.

"You're doing good," He said as I walked up to him. It felt reassuring. But I also felt as if I could have done more, but at least my hands weren't shaking anymore.

"One man left?"

"Now we just need to find the bastard," Farkas said as he started walking toward a staircase.

As we walked up the stairs I noticed Farkas would tilt his head every now and then. It looked odd. Almost as if he was smelling the air. Or listening for something.

"Here," he said as we came upon a door, the second of three doors. He was smiling as he gestured to the door. Grinning, almost. "After you."


	9. A New Companion

This must be their leader. He must have known we were coming, at least heard the fight outside his door, yet he seemed relaxed. He stood opposite a table across the room, facing us with a strict look. He wore a light armor with Imperial braces, so far he had made no sign of reaching for his sword.

"So the Jarl finally sent someone" He started, arms crossed.

Farkas leaned against the wall next to the door behind me, and gave me a look that said ¨They always talk too much.¨

"Do you even know why he hired you to kill me?" he asked. the tone in his voice sounded more rhetorical than asking and I got the feeling he was about to tell us. "I was a commander in the Great War. And when I returned, I was thrown to the streets like some dirty beggar!" His eyes were intense as he spoke, clearly, he was quick to anger. "He wouldn't even hire me to his guards!" he suddenly slammed his clenched fist in the table. "¨Untrustworthy¨ he called me… sure I did some questionable things. But it was war! I did what I had to! We all did!" He was shouting. "I served in the Great War, and this is the thanks I get? Hollowed up with some fools? Having to steal to get food on my table? Where's the justice in that?!"

Did he feel justified? He was a bandit. Did he really feel his actions were justified because of his past? My father had served in the great war, yet he hadn't turned rouge. Quite the opposite. He found my mom, bought a farm and made a life for himself. Yet this man spoke as if the Jarl was to blame for his now bandit-life. Or was he talking to himself more so than Farkas and me? If it was a genuine question, I honestly didn't know what to say. I looked at the man as he began to walk around the table.

"Well… not much I can do now…" he said as he leaned back on the table. "The Jarl wants me dead. So he sent you. Yes… nothing I can do about that…" His eyes set on the floor as he finished, and then returned to me. "Well!" He stood up, straightening his back, and drew his sword. "You're here to kill me, so let's get on with it. But if you think I'll go down without a fight, you're wrong." He seemed certain. His eyes sharp and filled with confidence.

Had he finished? No more speeches of justice? No more insults towards the jarl? Now he simply stood there as if he was expecting something from me, a drawn sword in his hand.

This man was different. His eyes were sharp, not like the drunkards we had fought earlier. No… those were the eyes of a man with a purpose. A man with dreams. Had his followers not been bandits and drunkards he might have become someone, and were I to take him by his words he had once been. Those were the eyes of a man who wanted to live. And they were staring straight into mine.

Still… He just stood there, sword in hand… Was he waiting for me to make the first move? In that case.

My left-hand softy tightened around the handle of my bow. I felt the string and arrow between my right-hand thumb and index finger. The atmosphere had suddenly turned tense. I could feel this man was dangerous. More so than the men we had fought earlier. It was the same feeling I always got before dueling Vilkas a certain calm before the storm.

The distance was enough for my bow to be sufficient. And so I decided to use it. I lifted my bow and took aim.

Instantly his knees bent and his body weight shifted forward, turning into a sprint.

He was fast!

I inhaled. Felt my heartbeat. Exhaled, and let the arrow loose.

I saw the arrow bend in the air as it adjusted its flightpath, straight towards the man's chest. Suddenly he sidestepped, ducked, and continued forward. I missed! A second heartbeat, this one stronger, gushing adrenalin down my legs. A slight sense of panic? The man didn't even flinch as the arrow flew past his head, grazing his left ear. He still hadn't broken eye contact.

No time for a second arrow. My left hand let go of the bow as my right hand reached for the handle of my great sword above my right shoulder. He pulled his arm backward and up. My bow hadn't reached the ground before he was on top of me. His sword, an extension of his arm, swung down towards my head. My own sword not even halfway out of its scabbard.

This is bad!

By instinct, I bent my knees into a crouching position and broke eye contact as I leaned forward.

Breaking eye contact… ¨Never let your opponent out of sight.¨ Vilkas had said after our first duel. And now I had broken that very rule…

I felt a hard thud against my back followed by a metallic sound as his blow was blocked by my half-drawn great sword. More luck than skill. A third heartbeat pounded in my chest. I straightened my legs and pushed my body forward and up, slamming into his chest. He went airborne and landed hard on his back on the stone floor, letting out a grunt of shock as the air left his lungs. No time to draw my sword! I raised my foot and stomped down toward his head. I'll never forget those eyes. He raised his arms in defense, but he was to slow, as I felt my heel go down, reaching for the stone floor beneath his skull and crushing his head.

A fourth heartbeat.

I stepped back. Remembering to breathe again I inhaled deeply and exhaled. With my hand, I brushed aside the black strands of hair that had fallen into my face as I calmed myself. That exchange had been dangerously fast. It could have ended badly. I turned towards Farkas, who was now holding his sword in a stance. He had a stunned expression on his face, and as his brain caught up to what his eyes had witnessed he let out a whistling sound.

"Welcome to the companions… Shield-brother."


	10. Wuuthrad

My morning training felt dull. Something had been gnawing at my mind for the last couple of days, I couldn't quite put my finger on it. I could only describe it as a feeling of discomfort.

Well, I had sweated enough. And lunch ought to be done.

Tilma always complained that ¨those who are late for lunch are late on time, and time doesn't leave lunch behind.¨One of her many sayings. It sounded simple enough, and in her own way, she did contribute to the discipline of the Companions. Even though she wasn't a member herself. One could call her a housemaid, a cock, a steward or simply an old lady, maybe even a hag. All were true, and even more true was that the companions would fall apart without her. She was truly the "mother" of Jorrvaskr.

As I entered the mead hall the atmosphere was as energetic as always. Njada complaining about Athis's slow arms, Torvar complimenting the mead, Vilkas and Vignar swapping stories over a table, though Vignar more so than Vilkas, and in the muffle of it all Ria said something about a bear.  
Farkas acted his own self, behaving like a statue at the table. And of course, there was Kodlak. Sitting in the middle seat of the table calmly awaiting his food.

I watched the life of the hall work it's ways as I removed my vambraces, gloves, and chest plater and set my gear and sword against the backrest of my chair before I took my seat. It didn't take long for the rest to settle down at the dinner table as well.

Tilma began handing out plates of pork soup, bread, and sliced gourd. Indirectly asking us to send it to our next. The same way she always did.  
Vignar hadn't even begun complaining about the watery soup before the front doors opened, drawing a gust of wind through Jorrvaskr, causing the fireplace to reawaken and send fiery sparks of embers dancing through the air.

Skjor and Aela had entered Jorrvaskr.

They had been on a hunt all night, though it seemed their luck had run short since they had no game on their shoulders. Aela took her regular seat between Njada and Skjor. Skjor, who usually sat next to Aela, surprisingly sat down next to me.

He had handled my training for months and so I felt I knew the man. Yet he had always treated me with some distance, like a strict parent constantly disappointed in his child.

He was a strict, disciplined, and a hardened man who rarely acted without intent. He was the kind of man who had no room for jokes in his life.

So why had he now, after all these months, chosen to sit next to me? He hadn't before.

I looked down at my reflection in the spoon resting in my watery soup, supposedly holding pork and potatoes. I didn't feel nervous, but the mirrored image I saw told me otherwise.

Kodlak rarely told stories of his youth, but Vignar had non-the-less spread stories of his bravadoes and battles. And those battles were nothing to take lightly. Kodlak had surely been a legendary warrior in his prime. But his prime was no more, and his stories nothing more than legend past. But the stories of Skjor reached a magnitude rivaling that of Kodlak. Every companion had heard the story of Kodlak and Skjor against the one hundred Orc berserkers. But unlike Kodlak who favored wisdom over arm-strength, Skjor was not yet that old. He was without a doubt the strongest of the companions.

He grabbed a slice of bread and started spreading butter on it with his dagger, beside me. He didn't look at me as he began to speak.

¨Last week a scholar came to us, he told us where we could find another piece of Wuuthrad.¨ Skor spoke as if he expected me to know what he meant.

What? Was he speaking to me?

¨What do you mean?¨ I asked as I watched him placing ham on his bread.

¨He seemed a fool to me, but the honor of the companions demand that we seek it out.¨

I didn't understand how or why this discussion had started. But then again, I didn't understand why he had taken a seat next to me in the first place.

¨What does this have to do with me?¨ I asked confused.

Skjor answered as if he had been expected that very question. ¨This is a simple errand, but the time is right for it to be your Trial. Carry yourself with honor, and you will become a true companion. Farkas will be your shield-sibling in this venture, whelp… He'll answer any questions you have. Try not to disappoint. Or to get him killed…¨

Trial? "True" companion? Farkas? What?

I had to admit my nervosity had turned into pure confusion. I wasn't sure what he meant. I hoped Farkas could explain better, but Farkas being Farkas, perhaps not. Though I figured it wasn't a suited dinner table topic, so I finished my dinner before seeking out Farkas.

It was evening. Tilma was already lighting the candles in the basement as I walked past her, creating flickers of light dancing with the shadows.

The door to Farkas' room was already open as I approached. Being in the cellar the dim candle lights barely lightened the room. Farkas was polishing his Wolf Armor cuirass as I entered his room. Upon noticing me he stopped and looked up towards me with his usual dead expression.

¨What?¨ he asked in his usual manner.

¨Skjor told me to find you?¨

Farkas lifted his eyebrows in a brief confusion, which quickly changed as he remembered. ¨I hope you've readied yourself,¨ Farkas started, still behind his half polished armor.

¨You're going to be my shield brother again?¨ I asked. I wasn't sure what Skjor ad in mind. But if he had paired me up with Farkas, it might be something dangerous.

¨So I'm told, let's see if you impress,¨ he said with his usual grumpy voice, like rocks grinding under mud.

¨Why did Skjor call this my trial?¨ I asked bluntly. Rather be straight to the point with Farkas, like we companions usually are. Men of actions, rather than words.

¨I watch to make sure you are honorable. If you are honorable and strong, then I can call you brother.¨ Farkas answered just as bluntly. I always appreciated that trait in him. That straight-to-the-point attitude was something we both had in common. ¨We are leaving at sunrise for Dustman's cairn, some old tomb left behind by the ancient Nords. Tilma will wake us. You ought to get some rest. It's about a day's walk from here.¨

Farkas lifted his dull gray chest plate and placed it on the one big table in his room that wasn't overrun by honeybrew mead or pieces of leather and pelts. He had spent all this time polishing it yet it seemed to me as gray and dull as ever.

¨You ought to prepare yourself before sleep, you won't have time in the morning.¨ Farkas said and glanced at me in his doorway.

¨Yeah… I'll get my rest.¨ I said as I turned away from Farkas' room and entered the corridor leading to the shared bedroom of the Companions, only the inner circle had their own rooms.

I spent the next half hour strapping my traveling gear to my backpack and filling it with what I felt was a one-day adventure necessity. Furs for a makeshift tent, traveling cape and extra clothing, in case of bad weather, some bandages and three healing potions I had gotten from Ysolda, oil and a small grindstone for weapon- and armor-care, and some dried venison, bread, and water. By the time I had finished, all the others were already loudly asleep in their beds.

I placed my backpack against the foot end of my bed, causing a slight thud-sound. Torvar let out a loud snore and turned to his side in the opposite bed.

I'll have to wake up early for weapon and armor preparations.

I went for the water barrel outside the room, filled an ale mug with water and gulped it down, a second one, and a third. Hopefully, I'll wake up, before Farkas, with the need to take a piss. That will give me time to finish the last of my preparations.

Lying down on my bed I stared at the roof, hands behind my neck. It all finally started to sink in. This ¨test,¨ ¨True-Companion,¨ ¨Wuuthrad.¨ A contract, given by Skjor himself. This contract must mean more than any earlier I've been on. I felt excitement as it all felt like a step forward. A step towards recognition and power. Working this right might lead me one step closer to fame, and one step closer to the Circle.

* * *

The creeping frost that preceded the sunrise gave me goosebumps all over as I pissed against the inner wall of Whiterun. A biting cold morning mist had started to rise from the wells and sewers in the Plains district, slowly working its way up towards the Wind district where Jorrvaskr was located.

Sunlight glimmered against the snowcovered High Hrothgar and almost licked the roof of Dragonsreach, the tallest building in Whiterun placed on a hill. One of the first buildings in Whiterun, after the Skyforge and Jorrvaskr, and the city had simply grown around it. And thus it was the palace of Jarl Baalgruuf, the Jarl of Whiterun.

Like all buildings in Whiterun, it was wooden with a foundation of cobblestone, but unlike the other houses in Whiterun it was massive. Large enough to hold the entire city-population within its walls. There was even an old legend saying Dragonsreach was named after the imprisonment of a dragon during the reign of Jarl Olaf ¨One eye¨ during the first era. Though I find it unbelievable that anything of wood would hold a dragon… breathing fire and all. But in my mind, it was all just legends, tales, and fables.

The inside of Jorrvaskr had a mellow cold to it, like that of a potato cellar. The hearth fire held nothing but charred coal and dead embers. still, the air held a residue of yesterday's warmth. I could hear snoring from the basement as I headed down to prepare my armor for the trip. Not to wake the others I decided to move my gear from the basement to the great hall.

I donned my armor and adjusted the leather straps for a better fit, slid some smaller pelt pieces here and there so the metal wouldn't dig into my skin, a trick I picked up while helping, or more like studying, Eorlund between contracts. I had just finished rubbing animal fat into the string of my bow and my leather boots when Tilma walked up the stairs.

¨Well someone's up early¨ she stated with her usual wrinkly smile. ¨Yet no fire going?¨

I hadn't thought about that. It was a common household rule that the first one to wake would chop wood and set the fire.

¨Forgive me Tilma,¨ I said. ¨Focusing on my prep-work, I honestly forgot.¨ I felt a slight embarrassment when I realizing I hadn't been the one to wake up first in months.

¨Well you younglings always treat time as if it was short, not realizing how much you have left. I guess patience is a virtue of age, and age you don't have. Now go get some firewood,¨ she said strictly.

¨Aye Ma'am.¨

SHIT! If I was stuck with wood chopping when Farkas meant for us to leave I would have two blunders under my belt in a single morning! And yesterday he told me Tilma would wake us, meaning he was getting ready right now!

¨You're late,¨ said the harsh voice of Farkas as I reentered Jorrvaskr. ¨And still not ready to leave? Tilma said you were awake before her.¨

There I stood in the doorway, armored up yet barefoot, arms filled with wood and all my traveling gear on the floor. I threw the firewood I had managed to chop for the last ten minutes into the fireplace and hurried to assemble my gear.

¨Sorry Farkas, I didn't mean…¨

¨That's alright,¨ he interrupted. ¨We still haven't had breakfast. Get your gear ready and I'll handle the fire.¨

As I went to gather my gear Farkas grabbed some flintstones and knelt down at the fireplace to light it. Tilma had already placed plates and mugs along the table and started serving bread, cheese, vegetables, and mead. As she did every morning. I had my gear ready just as the fire had fully awakened.

We ate a quick breakfast of what was to have while Tilma cooked the morning porridge, made of wheat with added snowberries. And as soon as we were done, we left.

The freezing morning mist had settled as we left Whiterun, and the brownish fields of Whiterun had its grass filled with sparkling frost and dew, glistering along the fields. It was a beautiful morning, the sun just half an hour over the horizon spreading god rays across the clear blue sky. There was a slight morning wind flowing across the fields, like the breath of Skyrim itself, creating waves moving along the grass creating the illusion of a hilled sea. I realized I hadn't had time to appreciate the beauty of Skyrim's nature since I last left Rorikstead, which now seemed so very long ago. I couldn't help but let my thoughts wander to my parents, I hadn't seen them in a long time. I wondered if they were safe and if the last harvest had been good. I should visit them when I can. And Eric as well, hopefully, we could drink some ale together and remiss about our childhood like we used to.


	11. The Night of Tears

**The Night of Tears**

_A long time ago, before the age of man, men lived in a land far to the north across the sea of ghosts. An ancient land known today as Atmora. Legends say it was a land of frost and ice, stone and waters, where nothing grew and thus only predators ruled. And the mightiest of predators were the Atmorians, precursors of man and fathers of the Nords. Mighty warriors, living in a land where only the mightiest survived. And no matter how hard of a land it was, they thrived. Building tools and houses, cities and ships. And this very progress gave birth to jealousy, jealousy birth to war and war birth to death by brethren hands. Some men were wise and saw how their progress split the Atmorans and pitted them against one another. A proud people, fallen to nothing but barbaric tribes fighting each other for progress they once shared. One of these wise men was Ysgramor. Mighty and wise warrior chef._

_It is said Ysgramor took his family, friends and anyone else willing, to sea. To escape that frozen war. And crossing the sea, they came across a new land. A land where the snow was spotted by green, where creatures existed that did not eat flesh, where the very earth gifted food for the living. This land was later to be known as Skyrim. But at this moment it had not yet been named such._

_But Ysgamor and his followers was soon to realize that they were not alone in this land. Other beings had lived here for ages past. And thus Man and Mer met. They called themselves Falmer, and were those who Man came to later give the name "Snow Elves"_

_Ysgramor told the Falmers of their escape from a frozen war, how his fellow men had turned against each other, an how he had taken his people to search for a new home, to again birth peace. Ysgramor told the Falmers many things. And the Falmes listened, understood and accepted. And they gave Ysgramor and his people land to call home. The very land their ships had first touched ashore._

_And so the first city of man, Saarthal, rose in this new world. And once again Ysgramor's people knew peace. And for many years the city would grow, and the people with it. And the people grew, and the city with them._

_RATS! The Falmers whispered amongst each other. Breeding rats! Growing weed! Creatures of death! Eating and breeding and breeding and eating!_

_And so came a night, a night as dark as the darkest of nights, both in meaning and not. And then came the screams, reaching for the sky. Screams of fear and death, screams of red that begged for help where no help was to be found. And when the screams ended there was silence. And when the silence ended there was laughter. Laughter of joy and triumph. And Ysgramor heard it was the Falmers laughter._

_In the darkest of nights Ysgramor ran, and his sons ran with him, and only the sound of six feet ran. All else was but silence and laughter. Ysgramor and his sons set sail to flee, to the only place they could flee. And as the sea of ghosts licked the ship Ysgramor turned to see his city of peace. And he saw I was not a city of peace, but a city of fire and red, silence and death._

_And Ysgramor wept, of fear he wept, of sorrow he wept, of darkness he wept, of anger he wept, of rage he wept, of pain he wept, of sadness he wept, of all he wept, of nothing he wept, but mostly, against the elves he wept._

_And as Ysgramor wept, his tears fell to the deck, like stones and rocks, like gravel and sand. Tears as dark as the darkest of nights. And the tears was the night and the night was the tears._

_And his sons saw their fathers' tears, like stones and rocks, like gravel and sand on the deck of the ship, and the first son held the tears in his hands and lifted them towards the stormy sky, and the other son took the lightning from the storm and held the lightning to the tears. And the tears and the lightning turned into fire, and the fire was water, and the water was red. And in their hand the brothers shaped it. And they shaped it well. But the shape was red, and the red was water, and the water was fire. So the brothers gave the shape to the sea, and the sea ate the fire, and the sea ate the water, and the sea ate the red. And all that was left was the shape. And the shape was well._

_And so the two sons gave the shape to Ysgramor. And Ysgramor named the shape in the name of Storm, and Ysgramor named the shape in the name of Tears._

* * *

I turned the scroll over and contemplated its content as I looked over its empty backside. The parchment had almost turned yellow of age. Farkas was slowly chewing down some salted venison as he sat on a boulder, staring out into the Whiterun fields lost in thought. Farkas, lost in thought? What an odd sight to see.

¨Quite poetic,¨ I said as I carefully rolled up the scroll, waking Farkas from his thoughts as he turned his attention toward me.

¨Vignar thought you might like the read,¨ He said and threw the last piece of the dried venison into his mouth, barely chewing before swallowing.

Jorrvaskr didn't have much of a library. But Vignar and Kodlak alike tended to hold a small collection of Companion history and lore in their chambers. Oh, how many times I had found Vilkas reading away in Vignars chamber. If he wasn't exercising or counting the Companions collected treasury. This scroll however held few answers as to what Wuuthrad truly was. It spoke in storytelling and symbolism more so than facts and history. I wonder how much of it was true, and not legend bent into myth by time. I still didn't fully understand what Whuutrad was. And the scroll only describes it as a shape.

"What is Whuutrad?" I asked, reaching the now closed scroll back to Farkas.

"Ysgramor was the hero who started the Companions. Wuuthrad was his weapon." Farkas answered as he dusted off his hands against the skirt part of his armor before accepting the scroll. "He came from the ancient homelands and killed all the elves. But not all of them, because some of them are still here."

I studied his face as he placed the scroll in a piece of clean cloth and put it back in the bag he had originally taken it from. Such a simple answer could only be given by Farkas. Well, I kind of figured it was a weapon but... Guess I'll just have to leave it at that.

¨We should keep moving.¨ Farkas said as he had finished. ¨We're not far from Dustman's Cairn now.¨

I looked in the direction he was pointing as I stood up, dusting dirt from my ass. I looked over the old stone pillars that could be seen in the near distance on a stoned hill. Extricating old Nordic tombs rarely sat high on the honor spectrum we companions tended to follow. But I guess we'd make an exception for a piece of Wuuthrad.

¨I'm ready.¨ I said as I pulled my backpack over my shoulders and began to walk.


	12. Dusman's Cairn

"Looks like someone's been digging here. And recently… Tread lightly" Farkas said as I entered the chamber behind him.

The old tomb was damp and cold, it reminded me of a potato basement. The air smelled heavily of dirt and moss. I had never seen one of these old tombs before, much less ever been in one. Hearing the stories as a child I always believed them to be holy, divine. Like some old temple to the Gods. Bu know that I was inside one, I saw nothing of the sort. Only old damp stone, dirt on the floors, brown roots growing out of the walls. Yes. It did look like an old potato basement. It was kind of... disappointing.

The first things I noticed were the burning torches and digging tools in front of the pile of rocks that used to be the stone door opening to the corridor inside. I drew my bow and nocked an arrow on the string. Gave Farkas a nod, and into the corridor, we went.

The next corridors, hallways, and rooms we moved through were filled with ancient Nordic burial urns and offerings, and thick layers of cobweb covered pretty much everything we saw. Burial stones stood along most walls, and if the stories I heard as a kid were right, they contained the mummified dried-up corpses of ancient Nords. Other than the burning torches we encountered here and there, there were no signs of anyone having been there for the last thousands of years.

Minutes went by as we moved along the dark tunnels and we hadn't met any resistance as we entered a larger, circular, chamber. In the middle of the chamber, the floor was elevated, almost like an altar or ritual spot of some kind. Water dripped down from the ceiling, the sound amplified by echoing stone walls, above the elevated area, which was covered in wintergreen lush. To the left were a number of old bookcases and shelves. On the far end was a lone room and there was a large metal gate to the right of the room, blocking the only way to get further inside the tomb.

"Be careful around the burial stones. I don't want to haul you back to Jorrvaskr on my back." Farkas said as he sheeted his greatsword and walked for the bookcases.

"Sure…" I said as I walked towards the elevated area. I couldn't help but smile as I tough on what Farkas had said. What a story that would make. _The newest Companion! Defeated by a stone block!_

I looked into the lone room. It had burning torches on the walls and I could see white papers on the tables in the far end of the room. They must belong to whoever has been her recently. I walked into the room to take a look, but I was quickly disappointed when I met with the empty papers. Nothing of importance… There was however a lever on the wall. Could it open the lowered gate? Couldn't hurt to try, I thought as I grabbed the lever and pulled it down.

The ratling of chains sounded inside the ceiling above me, followed by a loud thud as the gate behind me fell shut, locking me inside the room. _Well, this wasn't good. _I tried to pull the lever again, to no avail, as Farkas came walking over and looked at me through the bars.

"Well hi."

"Now look what you've gotten yourself into. No worries. Just sit tight. I'll find the release." He said as he started looking around.

Farkas had barely taken more than a few steps before he stiffened and, by instinct and habit, took up a stance. His eyes searched the pitch-black tunnels and I could hear him sniff the air, like an animal searching for danger. I had seen him do that once before. It looked odd, but I could tell something was wrong. It didn't take long before I noticed it too. Footsteps. The metallic sound of armor and gear. Suddenly there were many noises running towards us.

"It's time to die, dog!" A man shouted out of nowhere as five men rushed the chamber.

"We knew you'd be coming here!" One of the men said as they surrounded Farkas.

It was a trap. I lifted my bow and aimed an arrow at the closest man, between the gate bars. Farkas had drawn his greatsword and, without me noticing him move, taken up a more defensive stance. Why would they want to trap us? Who were they? Were they here searching for the piece of Wuuthrad as well? It didn't seem so.

"Your mistake, Companion." Another one of the men said as he lifted his torch, throwing light over Farkas.

They knew we were Companions? Why would they choose to ambush two Companions?

"Which one is that?" A woman said.

"It doesn't matter. He wears that armor, he dies!" One of the men abruptly answered her.

"Killing you will make for an excellent story." The woman said, pointing her sword towards Farkas.

Wait?... Did they? I started to realize the truth of the situation. This trap wasn't for me, or us. It was intended for Farkas. They hadn't come here to ambush two Companions. They had come here hoping to ambush one. Why?

"Too bad none of you will be alive to tell it," Farkas said with a stern voice. As the men slowly closed in on Farkas.

He can't handle five men alone! There had to be something I could do.

One of the men charged for Farkas in laughter. But Farkas didn't move. Why didn't he move?! I quickly changed my target and let my arrow lose. It punched the man in his chest plate, with no other effect than slightly pushing him back to a stop, interrupting his attack on Farkas.

I suddenly heard the sound of metal falling to the floor. Farkas had dropped his greatsword and was oddly hunched over. Froth bubbled from the corners of his mouth, dripping to the floor, and his breathing had turned irregular, almost lethargic.

I got a bad feeling. Something was really wrong. Had he been hit?! I scanned the room for any archers I could have missed but quickly found no one. I looked back to Farkas to try and see where any arrow could have struck.

Suddenly Farkas shot his arms back with a spasm. His chest shot forward and his head bent backward so forcefully it was frightening. Everyone jerked back in surprise, including me, as he let out an inhuman roar and I fell backward, down on the floor, in fright. He fell to his knees, still bent over backward. His arms and neck bent in what could only be described as "wrong directions" and I could hear the popping sound of joints dislocating and twisting as they reformed, skin tearing as the muscles beneath expanded. I felt fear race up my body as I crawled back, away from the gate. Almost like fog, a thick black fur grew out from between his armor plates and his body started to bulge out of the armor as it expanded. Armor pieces fell with heavy thuds to the floor as they broke and tore from his body. And when Farkas arose his body was unrecognizable. It had become that of a horrid beast. Like a mix between man and wolf. It was... horrifying.

The beast let out a bone-chilling roar that deepened as it echoed through the stone hall. The surrounding men lifted their weapons and in response let out their battle cries as they charged towards the beast.

It was a one-sided slaughter…

I sat covering in the far side of the lone room. Watching the men outside get… massacred, torn to pieces by razor-sharp claws. The horrid sound as one of the men's screams turned silent as his head got crushed between the beast's jaws. Stomachs torn open spilling their guts on the floor, intestines wriggling like a pile of worms. I watched a grown man soil himself as he cried out for his mother… I saw the woman… get squeezed to the floor until her insides shot out of every opening she had… and after all the screams ended… there was nothing but silence.

I sat in shock, shaking in the corner for minutes that felt like hours. Their torches had already gone dark against the cold moist stone floor. Only the lantern resting on my belt spread a dim light, narrowly reaching the still closed gate imprisoning me in the room. For a while longer I was left alone with the silence. Suddenly the gate opened as loudly as it had closed, startling me to fright. Footsteps approached the opening and Farkas came in view of the light. He was completely naked as he walked up to the opening of the lone room.

"I hope I didn't scare you." He said as he reached for his backpack on the floor and pulled out a dark yellow tunic and pair of gray pants.

Didn't scare me? He said that? Didn't… scare me?... I was still frightened to my bones! I slowly tried to rise, holding the bench behind me with both my hands as my legs still shook beneath me.

"What… was that?" I managed to ask as Farkas was dressing.

"It's a blessing given to some of us. We can be like wild beast. Fearsome," Farkas said as he walked around, collecting and reattaching his armor pieces.

Fearsome… that's a word for it… "The Companions,… are werewolves?" I asked leaning back on the bench, trying to get my legs to hold my weight on their own.

"Not everyone, but all in the Circle are. It's a secret to everybody," Farkas answered surprisingly honestly, but that was the way he always was. Honest.

He walked over and picked up his greatsword of off the floor and for a moment I just stood there, looking at Farkas as I tried to make sense of it all. I started to feel calmer, heartbeats slowing, legs steadying. No matter what I had just witnessed I knew Farkas was on my side. He must be. After all, we're both Companions.

"And... these men?" I asked, slowly gesturing my still shaky hand towards what could only accurately be called ¨remains of men.¨

"Silver hands. Bad people who don't like werewolves. So they don't like us either," Farkas said. "We should keep moving."

Reluctantly I gathered myself and followed the man. After all, I had to trust him.

As we continued through the tomb I couldn't help but feel the silent, awkward atmosphere between the two of us. But perhaps it was one-sided. Farkas sure showed no signs of being bothered for revealing himself to be a werewolf to me. I had so many questions. But I knew we had work to and so I bit down and decided to save my questions for later. After all, the tomb could still hold many dangers and none of us needed the distractions that came with conversation.

Suddenly Farkas stopped in his tracks and tilted his head as if focusing his hearing. He signaled for me with his hand and I approach him, dimming my lantern. Around the corner were a few men standing guard. At least three men could be seen in the light from the torches they had mounted on the walls. Farkas bumped my shoulder with his fist as he walked past me towards the men. The grin on his face said only one thing; no honor in fighting the unknowing. _Let's introduce ourselves._

As Farkas walked in front of me, taking the lead with his greatsword, I prepared my bow. Like last time I'd give him support from a distance. The men saw us as we came into the light. I lifted my bow and let an arrow loose as Farkas began to charge them. My arrow struck true, hitting one of the men in his chest. He screamed angrily but didn't go down, at least he was injured now. Farkas was upon him fast, making it look easy to finish him off.

I nocked another arrow, but the second man was to close to Farkas now. I couldn't risk a shot.

He charged at Farkas with a warcry, slashing his sword as he did so. Blocking a shortsword with a heavy sword is close to impossible, considering the difference in speed. But Farkas easily nullified that weakness with his armor, as anytime the Silver Hand delivered a blow that Farkas would be unable to block he simply tilted his body so that the Silver Hand would strike plated armor. Farkas wore and used his heavy armor as skillfully as he wielded his sword. And so Farkas quickly made done with him, as he had done many times before. He fought fearlessly and almost with joy, I could almost feel his disappointment in his opponents' skill.

As we stepped over the bodies and continued moving forward I looked at Farka's back, and suddenly a thought hit me.

Hadn't his armor torn and broke as he transformed earlier? How could he still be wearing it? I looked closer at the armor. But I could find no broken pieces, no torn leather strips or pieces of fur that had ripped.

Was this the true mastery behind Eorlunds design of the wolf armor? *It looked as if Eorlund had designed it so the armor would ¨unbutton¨ itself as the wearer transformed, and expanded inside the armor. Leather strips had, instead of torn, slid open. And rather than break off, the armor had fallen off. Piece by piece. But that meant given enough force the armor could be ripped straight off the wearer? didn't it. But I suppose enemies would seldom try to ¨unclothe¨ you during battle, so it was a weakness only those with a true knowledge of the armor would even consider using to their advantage.

_The quality of the steel might be Skyforge, but the design was pure Eorlund._

The Tomb had turned dark and silent as we went deeper. It was eerie, to say the least, and any noise we made seemed to be swallowed up by the pitch-black hallway in front of us. There were no more torches on the walls, I guessed the Silver Hands hadn't come this deep. I moved in the front now, bow in hand, since I was the one with a lantern in my belt. But the air was damp and cold and the flame in my lantern flickered weakly, from the lack of oxygen in the air, and we could barely see more than a few meters forward. Hadn't it been an oil lantern, I figured it would've gone out by now.

Soon we entered a large chamber. It was too large for my lantern to lighten the whole room at once so most of it was as dark as the hallway behind us. As we walked forward along the wall, I saw they were covered with large burial stones. And as we moved up the room a large table came within or sight, and a large wall behind it. The wall was in the shape of half a circle, bending around us, and there was an inscription on the wall. The letters were large and looked as if they had been carved into the wall by some large, sharp, tool. Almost as if they had been, clawed?... into the wall.

I didn't recognize the writing and symbols, I had never seen anything like it. Yet it seemed oddly familiar. I got a weird feeling looking at the inscription. Almost as if I was drawn to its meaning. I drew my fingers across the letters as I slowly walked along the wall. They seemed so familiar. Almost like a half-forgotten memory, or something. Something I had forgotten. But I didn't know what.

"Yol…" I mumbled as my fingers stopped on a specific letter. How did I?...

"Found it!" Farkas said out loud, interrupting my thoughts.

I turned my head towards Farkas in the darkness, but I couldn't help but gaze back at the inscription. I almost had to draw myself from the wall as I turned and walked over to the table where Farkas stood. He was holding an old piece of dark metal in his hand.

"This is _your_ trial," Farkas said. "So you'll take it."

When I grabbed the piece from his hand a sudden uncomfortable warmth spread in my body, like saddened anger. I almost started to feel angry as I found myself clenching my teeth.

_That dirty elf holds no place with the Companions. Who let him join in the first place? He'd be better off dead in the aches he so brag-fully crawled out from!_

The thoughts rushed my mind as my knuckles turned white by how hard I had clenched my fists.

A metallic sound rang through the hall as I dropped the piece to the stone floor. Farkas gave me a surprised look as I confused lifted my head up at him. The Anger within me had soothed as quickly as it had arrived. I held no resentment towards Athis? Why had I for a second wanted him dead? Hadn't Farkas felt anything? Touching the piece?

Suddenly a loud slam interrupted us. Like a large stone plate falling over in the darkness and crashing to the floor.

We both tensed up, and stared into the darkness where the sound had come from. Farkas carefully drew his greatsword. Eyes into the darkness I leaned down to a squat, took a piece of cloth from my pocket and picked up the piece of Wuuthrad with it as to not let it touch my skin and placed it over my shoulder into my backpack. Whatever magic it held I didn't want it to enter me again.

As I rose back up I placed an arrow on the line and lifted my bow towards the darkness, focusing my senses and listened.

Something was out there. It sounded like footsteps… bare feet slowly walking in the darkness, one step at a time. ¨tap, tap, tap…¨

I focused my eyes and tried to see into the dark. Something was entering the light of my lantern. It looked like the contour of a man, but his outline was… to skinny.

Suddenly two dots of blue eyes glowed in the dark as the creature turned his head to stare at us. The sound of bare feet against the stone floor quickened as it suddenly came rushing towards us. As he came into the light of my lantern I could see it clearly. It was a man. But his skin was pale as snow, almost ghostly blue. He was all skin and bones, spine showing through his stomach, and except for some rags hanging around his waist, he was naked to his core. He had long bleached and dried hair waving over his shoulders and a thin beard hanging down his chest. His facial expression was dead. Yet his eyes were gaping open, piercing us with his glowing ice-blue stare.

I quickly took aim as he lifted his axe-wielding arm. He was still charging for us, surprisinlgy fast considering his skinny body. My arrow dug into his chest, but he kept running towards us as if nothing had happened. He didn't even flinch. I quickly pulled another arrow and let it loose. Again, piercing his chest to no effect. He was too close now, I could feel a sudden fear rush over me. I stepped back in panic as he was on top of me, tripping on a single stair step I fell on my ass and dropped my bow. The skinny man letting out a bone-chilling dry hollow screech as he swung his axe down toward me, mid sprint.

I screamed.

A greatsword swung over my head. Hitting the man in his waist, splitting him in two. His torso flew over my head as his legs fell in a pile over me.

"On your feet!" Farkas shouted as he stepped over to the torso, crushing the man's head with his heal.

Disgusted and afraid, I pushed the dry old legs aside and rose. My heart was hammering, the sound of smashing stone echoed in the chamber as more and more coffins fell open. The increasing sound of bare feet tapping against the stone floor could be heard all around us in the dark.

"They're Draugr," Farkas said with his back turned against mine. "Aim for their legs, break their skulls."

"Can you do that wolf thing again?!" I shouted. My heart was pounding as I drew my sword and stared into the dark, and I could feel a cold sweat break out on my forehead and back.

"No…" he answered as they all came into view.

They were everywhere. Toppling over each other as they came for us. Clawing at us with their bony fingers. Swinging old rusty swords and axes at us as their dried-up vocal cords summoning bone-chilling screeches and groans… They felt no pain. They felt no fear. And so they kept on coming.

I had lost count of how many Farkas and I had slain when we finally managed to fight our way up some stairs. Their degraded and dried up muscles had made them weak, and I found their light frame easily fell over from kicks and pushes. But their strength lied in numbers. Every time I managed to slay one, two seemed to have taken its place. And fearlessly they kept on coming.

Farkas shouted for me to run ahead as he lifted one of them up and threw the skinny body down the stairs, the others toppled down the stairs as they were hit by the thrown body. Falling on top of each other as they rolled down the stairs, giving us time to run.

As the two of us ran through the hallways towards the exit the sounds of tapping bare feet followed quickly behind us. Running in heavy armor made us slow, and the moaning and groaning were only getting closer.

We saw sunshine coming in from the tomb entrance. We were getting close. The drauger were toppling over each other so close behind us that I could feel them reaching for my back. And as they fell behind us, their bony fingers drew down our calves and heels. We sprinted out the door and quickly turned to shut it.

But they had stopped. The draugrs had all stopped in their tracks behind us. And for a moment they only stood there, looking at us with their icy blue glowing eyes and dead expressions. And in surprise, we looked back as they slowly turned and slowly walked back into the tomb. Still moaning and groaning, if slightly less so than before. Whatever necromancy had kept them awake, it had apparently done so with the sole purpose of keeping people out. And as the drauger had succeeded in doing so, they seemed to go back to their slumber.

Farkas and I looked at each other as we pushed shut the old Tombs stone door.

"We will sing of this." Farkas said with a smile. "You fought with honor, shield-brother."


	13. The Circle

"Brothers and sisters of the Circle" Kodlak started with his hands held out in tradition. "Today we welcome a new soul into our fold. This man has endured, has challenged, and has shown his Valor. Who will speak for him?" The torches flickered in the dark as Kodlak turned watched upon the members of the circle.

Northern light of green and purple danced across the star riddled sky above our heads. The moons, Masser and Secunda, were nothing more than two bent lines of light over High Hrothgar, giving the stars even more room to shine than usual.

All the Companions were present for my acceptance into the Circle, standing on the terrace overseeing the training area behind Jorraskr. The Companions of the Circle, Aela, Skjor, Kodlak, Farkas, and Vilkas stood in half a circle around me.

"I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us." Farkas responded.

"Would you raise your shield in his defense?" Kodlak continued, looking at Farkas who had taken the roll to continue the ritual.

"I would stand at his back, that the world might never overtake us," Farkas responded.

"And would you raise your sword in his honor?"

"It stands ready to meet the blood of his foes."

"And would you raise a mug in his name?" Kodlak lowered his tone on the last few words.

"I would lead the songs of triumph as our mead hall reveled in his stories."

"Then the judgment of this Circle is complete. His heart beats with fury and courage that have united the Companions since the days of distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, that the mountains may echo and our enemies may tremble at the call." Kodlak finished.

"**It shall be so,"** all the members of the circle shouted in unison.

* * *

Tilma had outdone herself. The tables had been filled to the brim with food and drink. There were everything from venison stews to boar steaks, grilled and raw vegetables, anything and everything one could do with potatoes and every type of mead and wine she could find in Whiterun stood in large jugs on the table. Some of these things looked as if they could only have been found from Dragonsreach itself. It seemed Tilma had both pull and ways.

Torvar began singing the moment we all had sat down and it didn't take long for the rest to join in his comedic tune. Tilma, with the graze of a young maiden, walked around the table, making sure every mug was always filled. Vignar began telling stories of old, as he always did, without seeming to have a care for the world of who listened and who didn't. Even Skjor seemed to enjoy himself.

The only one with a slightly foul mood was Athis. He had been a Companion many years longer than me, and I knew jealousy was the reason behind his glares. He was a strong warrior and honorable man, but he was a Dunmer. And no matter how the Companions would deny racism, it was no coincidence the Circle only consisted of Nords. But it was my night. A night of tradition and feast, and so I would have it enjoyed.

* * *

There were a few perks of being a member of the Circle. First, it showed my position with the Companions as one more… permanent, than before. So I had been given my own room and no longer shared bedroom with Athis, Njada, Ria, and Torvar.

The Companions had no leadership or form of rank, and so being in the Circle gave no real form of power over the other Companions, it was simply symbolic; ¨Every man, their own.¨ outside of the Companions, however, was another thing. I had been given a boost in both respect and renown. People greeted me on the streets, Hulda let me drink for free at the Bannered Mare, something I rarely came to abuse, and even guards treated me with respect. But a position in the Circle also came with responsibilities.

Kodlak was the Harbinger. And as the Harbinger he was the ¨face¨ and ¨voice¨ of the companions, handling anything and everything that involved decisions regarding the Companions as a whole. He also guided and advised the other Companions whenever needed.

Skjor handled the jobs from Windhelm, and thus traveled there once a month to meet the Jarl, Ulfric Stormcloak, to collect contracts and payments. He had also self-proclaimed himself to be in charge of training, something I now was far too familiar to not be aware of. but he was a good trainer, and teacher, so everyone had gone along with it just fine. It was also he who was decided to take over as Harbinger, when Kodlak was to retire, or more likely, die honorably in battle.

Vilkas had always been in charge of the administrative work and our economy, collecting a piece of every payment we got. And thus using said payments for repairs of Jorrvaskr and to pay for any resources Eorlund or Tilma needed. Vignar used to say; That boy is far too clever to be wasted on a battlefield. But that didn't mean Vilkas didn't enjoy a good battle. And he, like everyone else, often took on contracts as well. He usually took Farkas as shield-brother, but we got along more than well these days. And we had been on some smaller contracts together more than once.

Farkas was in charge of any work we got from, our very own, Whiterun. Collecting bounties and meeting with Jarl Belgruuf once every month.

Aela had Solitude and Markarth. And she also handled hunting and overall food. Tilma had, however, taken upon herself to do most of the grocery shopping, so the food-part of Aela's job was something that didn't really need her attention.

And I had now been given the responsibility of the Rift. Thus traveling to Riften once a month had become one of my responsibilities. I had been nervous when I first met their Jarl, Laila Law-Giver. But Vilkas had told me to act respectful, professional, and representable. So I had. And she in return seemed nice and kind. I didn't feel that nervous after that, and I had no problems collecting contracts and payments. But I also started to work the Skyforge with Eorlund, any chance I got.

It had taken more than stubbornness before he ¨took me under his wing¨ and accepted. Him getting old and me being young and strong didn't hurt either. I knew he wanted one of his sons to take over the Skyforge after him, but they were always on some adventure or something, so Eorlund never got the chance to train them. A family tradition like that, I figure he was a bit disappointed in his sons for choosing another life. Not something he would ever admit to though.

Unlike Skjor, Eorlund wasn't that good of a teacher. It took weeks before he even allowed me to touch the Skyforge, before that I only got to observe him. And once I did get to work the Skyforge, he acted as if I already should know everything. Biting my ear off at every mistake or question. I believed myself to help him but in truth I was more of a ¨child-student¨ under him. But I learned a lot watching him over the year. That man was over his sixties yet he worked the steel as if he had been born with a hammer in his hand. Often making me sweat before he did.

* * *

My new room wasn't that large. Tightly holding a work desk, a small bookshelf, a wardrobe, a couple of chests, a small table, two chairs, a bed, and in the corner by the door a weapon stand, holding my new great axe, and a mannequin for my armor.

The great axe was easily my best work with the Skyforge so far. And I had taken great pride in its creation. The metal was, obviously, Skyforge steel. Giving it quality above any other steel one could find in Skyrim. The axe's head was heavy and based on a ¨disc¨ design, though flattened on the top with an engraved short spike, mostly for design. Both ends of the axe head were sharp, meaning one didn't need to twist the axe when changing the attack direction. And I had engraved both the flat sides of the axe head with patterns of a true Nordic style. Eorlund had helped me a lot with it, but I still felt I was its creator.

The handle was dark heavy hardwood from an oak. I had embedded pieces and rings of metal in the handle for two reasons. First, visual design. And second, to make the handle balanced in weight with the axe head. I had also spun leather around parts of the handle for a better grip.

My great axe was large, obviously made for me. And since I had gotten taller and broader, in my shoulders, than most people, my great axe was larger than standard as well. The impressive size even made it unwieldable to most people. Only Farkas of all the Companions had managed to use it efficiently when trying it out.

As for the armor.

It had taken Eorlund well over a week of work to finish it. Hours of him taking my measurements and, many hours more, making the fine adjustments. He hadn't allowed me to claim it until he, and only he, was satisfied… which he never was. So it had felt like an eternity until I had been allowed to take it to my room. But now I had, and it was mine. Perfectly fitted after my body and my body alone.

As I stood in my room admiring my new armor, mounted on my mannequin, I was truly fascinated by it. to the point of awe. The craftsmanship in front of me was perfect.

The inner layer consisted of two parts, one part for the front of the body and another for the back, held together by snap-on buttons into a suit, not covering the legs but rather turning into a skirt from the waist down. The two parts were made of wolf-skin, therefore the name, and had black fur covering both the inside as well as the outside.

Two layers of wolf skin already offered good protection against slashing attacks, but it offered even better protection against the harsh cold weathers of Skyrim.

On top of the fursuit came the armor plating, forged in the Skyforge. The torso plating consisted, again, of two pieces. One shaped after my back and one shaped after my chest. The backplate was smooth all over, but the chest plate held a number of engravings made by Eorlund. Primarily the engravings outlined my muscles. But there were also engravings of wolves and different artistic patterns. I knew Eorlund made detailed jewelry for a living as well, which his wife sold in the market. And his skill clearly showed in his attention to details on the armor.

The shoulder plates were simple and, like the back, smooth, and made more for the sake of protection. Favoring practicality over design.

If the armor as a whole was a masterpiece, I couldn't tell what one would call the vambraces. They were clearly the most detailed part of the armor. First, again, two-layered gloves of wolf skin and fur made in the same fashion and design as the suit, buttoned on the inside of the arm to give it the ability to open up upon expanding. Then on top came the plating. They were truly a work of art. They were shaped after the skull of a wolf, covering the entire front side of one's forearms. Unlike any other part of the armor, the plating varied in thickness as the shape of the skull differed. Making details as the eyes sink in while other parts would slightly bulge out. I drew my finger across the teeth of the skull, feeling each one as I went.

It was truly beautiful…

The boots were simpler. The same fashion of wolf skin and fur. But then nothing more than two pieces of shaped smooth plating per boot. One covered the shin, and another covered the upper side of the foot.

All of the steel used on the armor was Skyforge steel. Meaning it didn't rust, bend, chip, or degrade in any way. But unlike regular Skyforge steel, Eorlund had given it his trademark dull gray color that reflected almost no light. Not even in daylight. No one knew how he did it, but creating the gray steel was something unique only to Eorlund. And even then, he only used the technique for the Wolf armor.

I figured the ¨graying¨ gave no improvement to the quality. If it did he would use it for everything he made. So he most likely only used it for its visual effect, and reserved it only for the Wolf armor he made for the Circle.

But the true mastery in the design lied in how everything was attached. All the plating were kept together, and tightened, by leather strips. But rather than using the standard buckle method on the leather strips to hold the armor in place, Eorlund had exchanged the buckles for simple metal rings. Pulling the strips through the rings,and folded them back to attach to themselves by a number of snap-on buttons. Giving the armor the ability to fall in pieces, given enough force.

I thought back at Farka's transformation at Dustman's Cairn. How the armor had ¨fallen¨ of off him as he had transformed, rather than break apart as one would think I would.

This design, of course, came with an obvious weakness. If someone were to grab hold of the wearer's chest plate mid-battle and pull with enough force, the entire torso would fall off, both chest and back. But like I had thought before, one needed to be aware of the design to use this weakness.

The armor _was_ a masterpiece, and the design was clearly made for a werewolf…

Skjor had told me to meet him before the next full moon. And I knew what he had in mind. I had known the Circle was werewolves since Dustman's Cairn. And I had known Skjor's intentions for me the very moment he told me to ask Eorlund for the ¨special¨ design.


	14. Ysolda

She was beautiful as she lay in the grass. Her fiery hair dancing in the wind. Her soft pink lips moving as she spoke. Her deep amber eyes flickering with excitement and dreams.

We were celebrating my acceptance to the Circle, it was long overdue. Yet she was the one taken by her aspirations. She spoke in excitement, like so many times before, how she'd save enough money to buy the Bannered mare. She spoke of her fascination with the Khajiit caravans she had gotten to know, and their homeland Elsweyr. How she wanted to create a network of caravans all across Tamriel. I was captured by her passion and dreams.

I lay beside her in the grass and watched her gesture in excitement as she spoke of her dreams. I didn't mind that the real reason for our celebration had been long forgotten by her.

I had packed a basket with cheese and fruits. Skjor and Aela had returned from Solitude with some spiced wine on their last contract, and I had been given two bottles as well. Then I had taken her just south of Whiterun, to the woods halfway to Riverwood. There was a spot here next to the river that I had always wanted to show her. Where songbirds and butterflies always gathered, and salmon could be seen jumping up the river.

She suddenly fell silent mid-sentence and looked at me with a curious look.

"What?"

"Nothing," I said with a smile as I shrugged my shoulders. "You're just.. Truly something else."

"Oh stop it!" She said, obviously starting to blush as she so easily did.

"It's true," I said as I lean over her.

She laid flat on her back in the grass. Her face blushed in slight embarrassment. And her eyes so deep into mine one could forget the entirety of Nirn itself.

I stroked my hand across her face, gently pulling aside some red strands of her hair that had fallen over her face, and placed my hand on her cheek as I leaned in to kiss her slightly pouting lips.

She placed her arms around my neck and drew me in closer.

I slowly moved my hand down her chest, unbuttoning every button my hand met, as she pulled my tunic over my head and ran her fingers carefully through my chest hairs and down my chiseled abs. With my other hand, I pulled her sky-blue dress down over her shoulders. Exposing her perfectly round perky breasts.

Her silky smooth skin had taken to a pinkish hue, and her breathing was irregular as I caressed her stiff pink nipples. Her dress now laid open, like a blanket beneath us, as she unbuttoned my belt and slowly moved my pants down my hips.

I kissed her neck and chest as I moved my hand down her small slender waist. Over her bellybutton. Fingers through her fiery red pubic hairs. Felt her wet kiss and moved my hands again, lifting her legs around me.

Her body felt so small and fragile beneath mine.

The very next day I presented her an Amulet of Mara.


	15. The Wolf

My axe feels lighter than before.

I balanced my great axe in my hands, shifting its weight left and right, as I sat in my chair. I barely remembered the ¨Ritual¨ when Skjor and Aela had ¨Turned¨ me. Skjor had under the protection of night taken me to the Underforge; a hidden cave beneath the Skyforge known only to the members of the Circle, where Aela had been waiting. Skjor had warned me beforehand of her appearance, yet as I entered the cave my heart had taken a skip in my chest as I saw her bestial form. At first, I had believed her to be Farkas, as memories from Dustman's Cairn had flushed my mind. But I promptly noted her more… feminine and slender form. Ss well as the lighter tone of her fur. That Skjor had reassured me of her identity didn't hurt either.

Skjor called it a ¨Blessing from Hircine,¨ a gift he believed should be presented any member of the Circle. Yet he had not forced it upon me, no, he had made it perfectly clear the decision was up to me and that my position in the Circle would be unaffected had I chosen to reject this gift. But I wasn't the one to deny myself power. After all, seeking power was the very reason I had joined the companions in the first place. And so I accepted.

Skjor had taken Aelas furred wrist in his hand and opened it with his dagger, filling a mug with her blood. Aelas eyes glowed sharply with yellow hunger and de deep growl left her throat with her every breath, as she watched me accept the mug Skjor offered me. He told me to drink deeply. The thick red liquid was disturbingl warm as it flowed down my throat, and the thought of it being blood almost made me gag as I forced myself to swallow. This is where my memories began to fail me, as couldn't remember seeing anything but sudden black darkness.

I did however remember the pain...

I didn't know if something had invaded me through her blood or if that something had always been there, sleeping within me until awakened by it. But I knew it wanted out. My stomach had twisted and turned, forcing me to my knees. The pain was so intence I didn't know if I was about to throw up or straight out die. I had clenched my stomach as my guts burned and stung inside me as if they were clawing themselves out through the skin of my belly. And when the spasms started… That's when I had _wanted_ to die.

I had surely pissed and shat myself as even the cold stone floor against my body failed to sooth the torture I was experiencing, unable to even scream for the pain that ravaged my body. Every muscle I had tore and twitched as if my own body wanted to rip me asunder. And when the horrid cracking sound of my joints dislocating one after another started… that's when I had lost consciousness. Passed out from the pain alone.

Next thing I knew I was in a forest, staring at the morning sky halfway to Windhelm. Aela had been there to clothe me and aid me as I awoke.

That was almost a week ago now.

* * *

Skjor and Aela had spent the last couple of days teaching me about the changes my body had undergone.

And so far… I liked the changes.

First, there were the little things. More often than not I was hungry. And so my portions had gotten bigger. I hadn't noticed before, but when I thought about it everyone in the Circle had always had larger appetites than the others. I also found myself having more energy. To the point of regularly feeling restless. And sitting still doing nothing for too long was something I now found nearly impossible.

Then there were the more practical changes, such as an enhanced sense of smell and hearing. I had also noticed my eyesight improve drastically, allowing me to see details I never before had noticed. And darkness was no longer that great of an enemy. I couldn't see perfect in the dark but I no longer felt I'd need my oil lamp, except for in the darkest of places.

Every physical aspect as well seemed to have been noticeably improved. Increased muscle mass, strength, dexterity, speed, endurance, reflexes, and more. Eorlund had nearly ¨bitten my ear off¨ with curses as I had asked him to reforge the chest- and back-plate of my Wolf armor as they no longer fit. Apparently my increased chest girth wasn't something that usually wouldn't be so apparent after a ¨turning,¨ and so Eorlund hadn't taken it in consideration while first forging my wolf armor.

But then there were the bigger things, or ¨The¨ thing. The effect of Secunda, the smaller one of the two moons, being full. Which would awaken the ¨wolf¨ who now resided inside of me, and transform my body into that of a beast. When that happens, my conscious real self would ¨fall asleep.¨ And I would have neither control nor awareness of my actions until I woke, back as a ¨human.¨

My natural healing factor had also improved drastically. Scratches and bruises seemed to heal in minutes, and grander injuries that usually would take months to heal, healed in days or weeks. And one night of sleep was usual enough to restore me after a battle.

Skjor an Aela called it a ¨blessing.¨ And what a blessing it was.

"How's the nightmares?" Vilkas asked as he entered my room and shut the door behind him.

I gave him a look as I awakened from my thoughts. He walked in and made himself comfortable in the chair at my desk.

"I... dream about my brother a lot. And… flashes?... Of people dying." I said as I leaned my axe against the wall beside me.

"That's the ¨wolf.¨ I figured Skor and Aela wouldn't tell you about the downsides. They're much to ¨in love¨ with their wolves to ever consider them as downsides… That's why I came here." Vilkas said.

"Downsides?… Like the nightmares?" I placed my elbows on my knees as I leaned forward.

"The most important thing you need to know is that the ¨wolf¨ is always inside you now." Vilkas started, with a serious face. "Clawing for control… Most of the time he's asleep but every now and then he will awaken, if you're weakened, angered or, yes, asleep. And when he does, you'll feel, or sense, his feelings and thoughts. And when you're asleep you'll even see parts of his memories… That's the people dying… Every time you ¨turn¨ and the ¨wolf¨ kills, it will only add to those nightmares. The easiest way to get around that is ¨acceptance¨ which, in itself, isn't the easiest of things…" Vilkas made a face as he slouched his shoulders and briefly looked down. "Just make sure you're not somewhere you don't want to be when Secunda turns full. We use the Underforge for that. It has an opening to the Whiterun fields. As well as chains, if you feel like using them."

"So if… when I turn… I won't be able to control it?" I asked.

"I'm afraid not… When you ¨turn¨ the ¨wolf¨ isn't just awake. He's taking over. And when he does, you'll be the one to ¨fall asleep¨. There's nothing you can do about that." Vilkas said.

"The full moon?… But there hadn't been a full moon…" I mumbled, furrowing my dark brows. "When Skjor and Aela turned me, Aela had taken on her ¨beast form¨… Without Secunda being full" I said, raising my eyebrows.

"Aye… Some learn to trigger it at will. Usually using a strong emotional memory," Vilkas answered as he scratched his neck.

"But you said; ¨when turned one wouldn't be in control.¨" I gave Vilkas a look as I quoted him. "Wouldn't Aela had been..."

"That's most likely because of Skjor." Vilkas answered reassuringly. "Aela and Skjor's ¨wolfs¨ are quite… ¨attached' to one another. Skjor being present most likely calmed her ¨wolf.¨ Had he not been there, I figure things would have played out differently."

So there was _some_ form o control at least. Would Farkas have gone after me back then? had I not been locked behind bars? Or would his wolf, too, have remained calm at me?

"So she ¨triggered¨ it? Using a strong memory?" I asked.

Vilkas sighted slightly before he answered. "Aela's mother was a Companion. So like me and Farkas, Aela was born into the Companions… A long time ago Aela's mother died on a mission when Aela was still a young woman. I think Aela has blamed her own ¨weakness¨ for her mother's death ever since…" Vilkas paused for a moment. "I was too young to remember it, still biting knees, but that's most likely the memory she uses." Vilkas leaned forward in thought. "As for Skjor… He served in the Great War. After that he was a sellsword for many years, earning quite a reputation before the Companions found him. He doesn't talk about it, but I'm sure he has his fair share of bad memories as well."

"So I too could learn that power? Trigger it using a memory… like my brother's?"

"Doubt that'll work…" Vilkas said, slightly squeezing his lower lip between his thumb and index finger. "Not much anger in the death of your brother…"

"Anger?" I asked.

"Yes… The ¨wolf¨ feeds and awakens by it. He also seeks control by feeding yours… I'm sure you've noticed how things that used to simply annoy you, now more likely angers you. You're going to need and learn to control that." Vilkas said as he leaned back in the chair and gave me a look.

"I can behave myself, even when angered, Vilkas." I said as I, too, leaned back in my chair.

"Not talking about your behavior. I'm talking about your eyes," Vilkas said and pointed at my eyes.

"My eyes?"

"When the ¨wolf¨ awakens he can be seen in your eyes. Looking out through them. They'll glow yellow, like a wolf's. So you need to be able to calm yourself to avoid that, lest you want people to notice… It's a dead giveaway and people tend to react… _badly_ to it."

"I see?" I said, with a confused look on my face.

"But it can be used to your advantage," Vilkas said with a slight smile. "Few things scare an already frightened man like a Companion wielding glowing eyes," Vilkas said as he rose from his chair.

As he stood he held out his hands to his sides and fixed his gaze down on me as I sat in my chair. His eyes warmed and turned yellow, glowing with a distant flame, like the eyes of a wolf in the night. His entire presence had instantly turned maleficent and as I felt a shiver run down my spine I knew what he had meant. Those were truly the eyes of a Dremora.

His eye soothed back to their silver-blue self and Vilkas sat back down in his chair, wearing a smirk on his face.

"I see what you mean…" I said giving him an approving nod with a slightly impressed smile on my face.

"A bandit once called me ¨Spawn of Coldharbour...¨ right before I killed him. Must be my favorite nickname that one," Vilkas said, smiling as he again leaned back in his chair.

"So what memory does Farkas use?" I asked curiously as I figured Vilkas must be aware of his brother's life happenings.

"Farkas?" Vilkas asked.

"At Dustman's Cairn… bout a year ago… I saw him turn in front of me."

"Aah…" Vilkas started, scratching the stubble on his chin. "Farkas is different… I don't mean to trash-talk my brother but, his more… ¨primitive¨ nature has always kept him close to his ¨wolf.¨ And they usually get along well… He's strong like that… But don't worry, if you had that ability you'd know already." Vilkas gave me a look. "And before you ask… No, I can't do it… don't want to either. I'm satisfied with the regular ¨perks.¨" Vilkas said, slightly shaking his head.

Before I could ask why Vilkas rose from his chair.

"There's more to the change you ought to know," Vilkas said with a hard look. "It also changes your soul… But you should talk to Kodak about that. He's more the ¨spiritual¨ guide than I can be. In fact, he has asked to see you." Vilkas finished as he started walking towards the door, but stopped as he grabbed the handle. "And one more thing… Take my advice… don't seek to gain that power… It's rarely worth the price," Vilkas said as he opened the door and left.

"Kodlak eeh…" I murmured to myself as I reached for my great axe to again balance it in my hands. "Guess I'll see Kodlak then…"

* * *

"You wanted to see me?" I asked as I knocked on Kodlak's already open door and entered his private chamber.

Kodlaks chamber consisted of two separate rooms, the only personal chamber to do so. The right wall held a door leading to his bedroom which I had never entered, never had a reason to. The main room held displays of varying sizes against most of the walls; holding artifacts and memorabilia from his younger days, weapons, beast skulls and such. A large decorated desk sat in the far left corner, next to a full bookshelf, filled with writing materials, books and journals. There were no windows in the basement and so candles burned on engraved stands placed on most surfaces, as well as I large chandelier hanging from the ceiling in the center of the room.

"Yes, youngling," Kodlak answered from his corner table as he put down a thick book he had been reading. "Have a seat." He said with a gentle gesture toward the second chair at his table.

My steps turning silent as they met the large red carpet with golden linings on his floor. The center of the carpet had a large axe embroidered in it by black and gray cotton threads. An axe I had learned was the true form of Wuuthrad. The axe-head was squared; two large blades on both ends held together by a piece formed into a gaping, screaming elf-head, from the neck of the elf-head a straight metal handle shot down at least a meter or so. I recognized the elf-head as the piece I and Farkas had collected from Dustman's Cairn, which felt like ages ago. A slight chill ran down my neck as I recalled the feeling of sorrowful hatred that had overwhelmed me when I had touched the accursed ebony piece; forged from Ysgramors very hatred itself.

"Thank you for coming," Kodlak said as I made myself comfortable in the chair. "I wanted to see you… for I fear you have accepted a contract unknowingly of its true price."

What did he mean by that? "Skjor said it was a blessing from Hircine."

"Aye, that sounds like him," Kodlak said with a disagreeing face. "As In all matters of faith, however, the reality is more complicated than one believer would tell you."

"...So what's the truth then?" I asked for his cryptic statement. Kodlak was wise. But I always found it a bit annoying how he always spoke in riddles.

"The companions are nearly five thousand years old. This matter of beast blood has only troubled us for a few hundred," Kodlak started. He looked into the air in thought as he recalled the scriptures he held memorized in his head. "One of my predecessors was a good, but short-sighted man. He made a bargain with the witches of Glenmoril Coven… If the Companions would hunt in the name of their lord, Hircine, we would be granted great power."

There was that name again, Hircine. I knew he was one of the Deadric Princes, a God. But I knew little more than that. "Who's Hircine," I asked, leaning forward with my elbows on the table.

Kodlak made a disconcerting face as he realized the naivety I held for the contract I had so willingly signed. "Hircine, ¨Spirit of the Hunt,¨ ¨Huntsman of Princes,¨ and ¨Father of Manbeasts¨ are some of the many names he wears. He is the Deadric Prince who placed Lycanthropy on our world… the very curse that now grips your soul."

A moment of thought passed my mind. I had never really been one for the Gods, Aedra nor Deadra alike. Yet now I had taken part in a play created by one of those very Gods, a Deadra nonetheless; who were considered more controversial or evil-minded than the Aedra. The more I thought of it, the more Kodlak's words gave anxiety room to grow within me. Had this ¨signing of contract¨ truly been a smart one? But I had been granted strength? Right... Strength unreachable by others. A strength I before hadn't even imagined possible.

"And they become werewolves?" I asked as my attention returned to his eyes; referring to the Companions of old.

"They did not believe the change would be permanent." Kodlak continued as he noted my returned attention. "The witches offered payment, like anyone else. But they had been deceived."

"But aren't we more powerful now?" I asked, rationalizing my choice.

"The witches didn't lie, of course. But it's more than our bodies." Kodlak said as a grave, seriousness fell over his eyes.

Vilkas had mentioned it had a change on my soul. Is that what Kodlak was referring to?

"The disease, you see, affects not just our bodies." Kodlak continued. "It seeps into the spirit. Upon death, werewolves are claimed by Hircine for his Hunting Grounds. For some, this is paradise. They want nothing more than to chase pray with their master for eternity…" Kodlak turned his eyes to the ceiling before he returned them on me. "And that is their choice. But I am still a true Nord. And I wish for Sovngarde as my spirit home."

So that's the price I paid? I lowered my head as the meaning of Kodlak's words became reality in my mind. A lifetime of supreme power and strength, in exchange for an eternity spent as nothing more than Hircine's ¨lapdog¨. And my seat in Sovngarde, where heroes of old and new alike would battle one another, only to rise from their daily deaths to later feast as friends in the Hall of Valor until the end of times. Had ripped from my grasp? Had I exchanged my afterlife in Aetherius to eternally hunt as a beast on the fields of Oblivion?

_I figured Skor and Aela wouldn't tell you about the downsides._

Vilkas' sentence repeated itself in my mind. That's what he meant. Had Skjor told me I gave up my afterlife, had I chosen differently? Had I even believed in an afterlife before all of this? If it did exist, then where did my brother reside? Was he in Sovngarde, or someplace else?

"I need to think on this." I said as I slowly rose from my chair. Kodlak gave me an approving nod as he, too, rose from his chair. He walked over to his bookshelf and piled a number of books in his left hand. I saw the book cover on top read ¨Physicalities of Werevolves¨ as he handed me the pile.

"These might hold some answers for you. And my door is always open, should you wish to talk." Kodlak said and politely gestured toward the door.


	16. Full Moon Rising

¨See you in the Underforge tonight?¨ Vilkas asked as I passed him in the empty hallway beneath Jorrvaskr.

It was before noon, meaning training and practice were on the agenda. But I had fallen behind with the paperwork that grew on my table as quickly as my loathsomeness for it grew. So while the others spared one another and trained their sword-arms. I had been grinding teeth and scratching my eyebrows over my work desk, answered any and all letters I had gotten from Riften. It wasn't hard work really, it just turns out I **hate** writing. When I had first arrived at Jorrvaskr I had barely been able to read, even less write. So Kodlak himself had quickly decided to correct my lack of skill when I first joined. And even though reading was something I no longer found difficult in, writing was. I suppose the thing I hated the most was being bad at something most found easy.

"Sure…" I answered as I stopped in front of him. "Same time as last?"

"Before the sun fully sets at least. You know the drill by now." Vilkas answered, gripping his wolf-head shaped belt buckle with both hands in a relaxed stance.

I nodded in thought for a brief moment before returning eye contact with Vilkas. "So… you came down here just to ask me that?" I asked. After all, Vilkas wasn't the type to skip out on training.

"No…" He answered. "Tilma is going to the market, said she needs some coin." Vilkas grimaced slightly at the thought, for a moment his sleep-deprived eyes seemed to turn even heavier. I knew we had gone over budget this month, something which surely troubled Vilkas far more than he dared to show. After all, he was the only one fully aware of our treasury.

"Well I'll, let you be then." I said as I made a move to head for the stairs.

"Aye…" He answered heavily as he headed for his room.

"Hey, wait." I stopped myself and turned my head back towards Vilkas. "While you're down here…"

"I'll check your grammar," Vilkas answered slightly annoyed, but with a hint of humor, as he gave a wave over his shoulder and disappeared around the corner at the end of the hall.

* * *

The torchlight flickered against the stone walls as well as in the eyes of everyone present. It always surprised me how warm the Underforge was, with its water dripping stone walls and typical cave floor. But considering the Skyforge, with its eternal fire, was burning day and night just above our heads I really shouldn't be surprised. The cave simply gave off the same atmosphere as most other damp caves and potato cellars, so one always expected it to be cold. But in truth it had more in common with a sauna, warm and damp, smelling heavily of sweaty skin and dirt.

"Kodlak won't join us today either?" I asked as I looked over the others.

"Kodlak never joins us for this," Skjor answered quickly. "Whenever the full moon closes in he travels to Winterhold. Finds a cold cave and waits I out. His wolf won't leave the cave to hunt due to the cold there." Skjor made a slight look of contention before continuing. "He also says he's searching the College's library for a cure."

"There is a cure?" I asked raising an eyebrow. No one had mentioned anything of a cure before. Not that I knew if I was interested in one.

"Cure? Hah. You're sounding like the old man." Aela burst before regaining herself. "I… shouldn't say that. I love Kodlak. I respect and follow him. But he's wrong on this. It's no curse. We're made into the greatest hunters in the land. If he's worried about some mead-swilling afterlife in Sovngarde, he's free to pursue it." Aela sighted before continuing with confidence. "I'll take the glories of the hunt right here."

I saw Vilkas give Aela a judging look before he interrupted her with the sound of rattling chains that he had begun to attach to himself. Chains forged by Eorlund himself in the Skyforge. The chainrings were far too large to fit around his neck, waist, wrists, and ankles. But once the transformation started expanded his body they would fit just right.

"Being moon-born is not so much of a curse as you might think, Vilkas," Aela said in response to the judging look she had been given.

"That's fine by you," Vilkas answered as he clipped chains around his wrists. "But he wants to be clean. He wants to meet Ysgramor and know the glories of Sovngarde. But all that was taken from him." Vikas said, referring to Hircin's claim on our souls.

"Farkas, you're staying behind too?" Skjor asked suddenly, surely to interrupt the possible arguing he felt was growing between Aela and Vilkas.

"I go where my brother goes." Farkas answered in his usual grumpy manner.

"What about you then?" Skjor asked as he turned his look towards me. "Chains again? Or are you joining us for a change?"

In the previous months, I had used the chains with Vilkas and Farkas. So I hadn't gone out to ¨hunt¨ in the wild even once since my turning.

"What would we do?" I asked, not sure yet if I would take Skjors offer.

"We plan to use it to our advantage." Aela pitted in. "We have a contract for a bandit camp not so far to the north. It's still an hour till we turn. If we hurry, we can make it there. Turn close enough that our wolves will smell them, and hunt." Aela smiled as she spoke. "We'll please Hircine as we hunt, and complete a contract in the progress. Win-win."

I could tell Vilkas gave me a look as I was considering their offer. ¨_You don't like this, do you?¨_ I had asked him before our first full moon together.

¨What's there to like?¨ He had answered in almost anger full annoyance. ¨Excruciating pain till you pass out, waking up Shor knows where having done Hircine knows what?… The ¨wolf¨ can't be trusted. He does what he wants no matter your own thoughts.¨ He had said.

"Make up your mind." Skjor said, interrupting my short flashback of memory. "We don't have time to spare."

He and Aela turned to walk for the cave opening leading out to the Whiterun fields.

I looked at Vilkas and Farkas, finishing their chains. Then back at Skjor and Aela, walking away…

Curiosity wanted me to leave with them, as much as fear begged me to stay.


	17. Sleek the Drunk

The sound of empty bottles of ale and wine, falling over and rolling along the floor reached me as I turned over in the damp hay pile that was my bed. Dirty water was dripping from the sewer lines and openings that decorated the ceiling above my pounding head and continued to drip down the moss-covered stone walls, and the air was misty and heavy with the damp scent of mold and dirt.

I slowly sat up and rubbed my face; picking dirt out of from between my scales with my claw-like nails.

"Uuugh,… My head…" I moaned as I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes.

"You're awake early."

Ough... By the Hist... not her. She sounds as annoying as ever.

"Give me something for my head." I hissed just as annoyed as I reached for the nearby bottles and shook them in search of one with a hint of content.

"We're all out." Her voice was as sour as the taste in my mouth. "We drank it all yesterday, remember?" She said as she started picking empty bottles of the floor in a half-assed attempt to clean. She whipped her scaly tail at me in annoyance. Or in order o annoy.

I didn't remember…

The cold sewer wall was wet as I clawed myself up and started stumbling towards the wooden door. The floor beneath my bae feet was as moist and moldy as the hay I had slept in.

"Where are you going?" she asked with her usual critical look. As if nothing I did was ever right. Bitch.

"Take a guess! For a drink, of course." I hissed annoyed as I fumbled with the doorknob.

The Ragged Flagon was an Inn hidden in the sewers beneath the well of Riften. The Thief guild had, eons ago, made the chamber beneath the city their own little hideout. ¨Hidden-in-plane-sight¨ and all that. And as rumors spread, criminals started pouring in as quickly as the excrements from the city left the pipes on the walls, filling the chamber floor. And the makeshift planning tables, beds, and barstools that stood ankle-deep in the sewage had quickly been placed atop platforms of wood, bridges, and catwalks that stretched like a spider web across the stench-filled chamber. And so the thief guild had made it their home beneath Riften.

How ironic…

Cutthroats, beggars, and thieves had pulled their purses together in order to not work in the dirt. When ¨working in the dirt¨ was the very definition of what they did. And so an empire had slowly been created and built in this large, flooded, well-chamber. And so it's been used for ages to plan their heists, hold meetings, share rumors and, more importantly, drink. Far away from the prying eyes of the law.

"You're not welcome here, lizard," Dirge said with his ridiculously macho voice as I approached the Inn. Arms crossed in his usual grumpy way.

"Shut it!" I hissed sharply as I walked past him, dragging my tail along the wet floor toward the bar as ignored his stern glare.

Brynjolf stood leaned over some papers, as usual. His auburn red hair hung down his face as he studied the papers at the bar counter, and I couldn't tell his expression as I sat down on the barstool next to him.

"I won't serve you until you pay off your tab, Sleek," Vekel, the bartender, said. He sounded as annoyed as the very voice I had awoken to. "You already drank all my good stuff! In fact! You drank all my stuff!" He said angrily as I threw a single Septim on the counter.

I snarled at him as his voice had reawakened my headache, took back my coin and turned on my chair to facing Brynjolf. I placed my left elbow on the counter and rested my pained pounding head on my hand.

Brynjolf gave me a judgmental look before he opened his mouth. Here we go...

"Didn't you have some wedding to attend?" Brynjolf asked, giving me a sideways look as he returned to lean over his papers.

"What wedding?..." I said as I shut my eyes and massaging them with my hand. It was impossible to ignore the pounding in my head.

"Yesterday you said something about a wedding... and the Khajiits," Brynjolf said still, aiming his attention towards the papers.

"THE WEDDING!" I shouted, opening my eyes wide as I flew off the barstool, tipping it over as I turned, and staggered out of the Ragged Flagon.

Since the Temple of Mara was placed in Riften, wedding ceremonies were a common event in the city. And the Khajiits were usually not allowed, by law, to enter the cities of Skyrim. But this wedding was different. For some, to me, unknown reason, the Khajiits had been allowed to attend.

"Already back?" my sister said as I hastily entered the mold smelling room.

"Hush woman!" I hissed as I started rumbling through my things.

I could feel her leaning over my shoulder to get a better look. Why did she always have to pry in my business? Her eyes opened with excitement as I pulled out the surprisingly clean bag, the size of a small fist, from one of the wooden boxes in the corner.

"You didn't tell me you had Moon Sugar!" She said as she reached for the bag in my hand.

"It's not for you, idiot! It's for the Khajiits." I hissed at her as I drew back my hand, tightening my grip on the rough bag which felt as if it held sand.

She looked confused and gave me a look as she flicked her eyelash-less eyelids in confusion.

"Since when do you share your Moon Sugar with the Khajiits?" she asked, this time more out of genuine curiosity than her usual annoyance.

"Just,… come with me. You'll understand when you see it." I said as I hurried towards the door, tail whipping.

The Rift was always the most beautiful in autumn. All the lush grass and the thick birch forest just outside of Riften shone with all the colors of yellow and red. And when the morning sun rose, the dew would glisten in the sunlight as if a million tiny ambers and diamonds covered the entire forest. And when, in turn, the sunset arrived, the red sunlight would make the entire forest glow as if on fire. And the warm winds flowing in from the Red Mountain in the East would warm the air, and the geysers in Eastmarch to the north would shield the Rift from the cold winds of the Sea of Ghosts, and so unlike any other place in Skyrim, the temperature was above freezing point all around the year. The perfect place for us Argonians who are used to warmer climates than Skyrim provides.

The Khajiits, the Cat-people of Elswer, were mostly traders. Traveling between the cities and towns of Skyrim to buy wares in one place only to sell them in the next. So they were merchants and traders. And now they had made camp outside of Riften to attend the wedding. Hiding their caravans with merchandise in the birch forest outside the city walls.

"There it is!" I said as the camp came in view. I liked to act as if I had shown her where to find it, rather than admit I had just blindly stumbled upon it myself.

"And where's the Khajiits?" She asked suspiciously. She was always suspicious when it came to me and my plans. It annoyed me.

"At the wedding, of course." I snarled.

"The wedding?" she asked confused, almost twisting her tongue on the second word.

"Never mind that!" I snarled as I ignored her questioning look and pointed towards the camp. "Look. There's only one of them guarding the camp." I said, pointing to the lone Khajiit sitting by the fire in the middle of the camp.

"Don't you think he'll hear us searching the camp? They have very sharp ears, you know." She said with a look that said my plan had failed even before it began.

"That's why you're here," I said with a wide teeth-showing grin. "You'll ¨distract¨ him, while I search the camp," I told her as I started digging through my weathered satchel for the bag of Moon Sugar I had brought for this very purpose.

"You're not making me sleep with a Khajiit again!" She hissed, now clearly annoyed. "They have ¨thorns¨ you know!"

"Just!… Just go get high with the cat!" I hissed through my teeth as I pushed the tan-colored bag of Moon Sugar into her hands.

The inside of the main tent was riddled with boxes and piles of wares. Patterned carpets hung down the walls, vases of all forms and sizes stood all over the floor and atop the boxes, most of them filled with pencils, brushes and other stick-shaped items.

It must be in here… I thought to myself as I started searching under and over the wares, flipping boxes and vases, making no attempt at hiding my search.

"Aaah!..." I exhaled in relief as I found a tiny shiny box, hidden under a pile of rags and cloth.

Eight tiny flasks, no bigger than a fat thumb, with an all too familiar purple-pink content, was revealed as I opened the decorated silver box. Hastily I grabbed one of the flasks and threw it into my mouth. As it fell on my sharp tongue I moved it around and started to slightly chew on the tiny flask as I gathered the other flasks and placed them in my satchel.

I moved the flask left and right in my mouth as I kept searching for jewelry. Making it dance on my tongue in excitement. I slightly chewed on the spongy cork and felt it slowly loosen. I peeked out the tent to see if the coast was clear, and as I could no longer contain myself I bitt the flask in two. My body slightly shook with excitement as the sweet nectars filled my mouth, surrounded my tongue and made exquisite love to my throat. I felt warm. And smacking my lips I let it flow down, to give birth, into my stomach.

As the coast was clear I hurried off into the woods and sat down against a tree. Relaxing, I let my eyes roll back into my head as I felt my mind dull and my body starting to shake. I felt my veins tighten in ecstasy and my very scales turned upright in divine prayer.

The pounding in my head had finally stopped…


	18. The Temple of Mara

"It was Mara that first gave birth to all of creation and pledged to watch over us as her children. It is from her love of us all that we first learned to love one another. It is from this love that we learned that a life lived alone is no life at all. We gather here today, under Mara's loving gaze, to bear witness to the union of two souls in eternal companionship. May they journey forth together in this life and the next, in prosperity and poverty, and in joy and hardship. Do you agree to be bound together, in love, now and forever?" Maramal preached, the priest of Mara, with both hands clutched in the air in praise to the goddess.

"I do. Now and forever." Her smiling amber eyes were locked into mine.

"I do. Now and forever." The words came easy for me.

"Under the authority of Mara, the Divine of love, I declare this couple to wed. I present to the two of you with these matching rings, blessed by Mara's divine grace. May they protect each of you in your new lives together." Maramal finished as he lowered his hands to present two rings, one in each hand.

I placed my ring on her finger and she placed hers on mine.

As we turned towards the crowd we were met with cheers and applauds. It felt a bit awkward. But I was happy.

In the front right row sat my parents. My mother was crying with joy as she clapped her hands and wiped her cheeks of tears. My father looked prouder than ever. He too had tears in his eyes as he clapped, though he tried to hide it. Never thought I'd see him cry again. At least this time it was from joy.

On the second and third right row sat all the Companions, Ria and Torvar loudest of them all. Skjor and Aela had even decided to stand up as they clapped. That was odd.

On the left side's first row sat Ysolda's close friends, Carlotta with her daughter, and Anoriath.

On the second and third row, sat the Khajiit caravaners Ysolda had gotten to know even before we met. We had to get special permission for them to enter the city of Riften, but Kodlak as the Harbinger of the Companions had pulled some strings and somehow made it work. Perhaps me being the representative in Riften had some weight as well.

And in the back on the furthest row sat Balgruuf, the Jarl of Whiterun, and his personal housecarl Irileth. Balgruuf always tended the weddings of his people. He cared for his people in that way.

Life in Skyrim was harsh and short, and death at a young age had never been something uncommon. Most people, therefore, married at a young age for the sole purpose of getting married and have children before they died. So their children could take over family farms or lands. Very few people had the luxury to find love, and even fewer to marry for it. But we had.

We were truly blessed.

* * *

And so life went on.

Shortly after the wedding, I moved in with Ysolda. Leaving my bedchamber in Jorrvaskr to serve as my workplace and armory, as I still had my responsibilities as a member of the Circle. And as much as I hated paperwork, the stacks of requests from Riften always seemed to grow. And with them, my monthly visits to Riften lengthened from, what used to be a day or two, to nearly a week or two at times. But we made it work.

I usually took or sent Torvar on those contracts. For some reason, he fit right in with the people of Riften. And he always, to my delight, brought back a keg or two of Blackbrier mead; Farkas can complain all he wants, I always found Honeybrew mead too sweet for my taste.

* * *

"So you know that ¨_they owe me money_¨ contract you sent me on?" Torvar said to me, making gestures on the ¨_They owe me money_¨ part, over the full dining table in the mead hall. He had clearly been drinking already.

"Still haven't gotten paid for that one." Vilkas quickly interrupted before I could ask, pointing his fork with a grilled potato on it towards Torvar.

"I have your gold right here," Torvar said annoyed as he threw a heavy pouch of Septims on the table in front of him.

"It's not _my_ gold." Vilkas corrected him. "It's gold for the food you're eating!" Vilkas continued, annoyed at the drunken ¨waste of air¨ he sometimes considered Torvar to be.

"Calm your horses, calm your horses…" Torvar gestured, shooing Vilkas away from his mind.

_This ought to be good._

"So I came to Riften…"

"I was there too!" Athis interrupted, smacking the back of Torvar's head with his left hand as they sat next to each other.

"Enough!" Skjor exploded, twitching the entire dining hall to a standstill. Even Kodlak sat, open-eyed, with his fork frozen in his mouth. Skjor always had a short temper. But lately, I had felt his fuse was shorter than usual.

"So... what happened?" I asked Torvar, interrupting the silence.

A twitch in his shoulders as he turned his head towards me and returned to his excited self. "So I… **We**… came to Riften" He continued, giving Athis a look at the ¨we.¨ "But it was late, so Athis went to the Bee and Barb to get us a room." He gestured as he spoke. "But not too late… so I figured…"

"Something dumb as always?" Athis interrupted.

"So I figured,…" Torvar continued as he gave Athis a glare as he raised his voice. "…that I should meet our client!" He almost shouted the last words as he turned his head back to me. "So I went to the market place, as it said in the letter, to meet this Bjerolf guy."

"Brynjolf…" Athis corrected.

"But he wasn't there!" Torvar continued, his gesturing tuning for the worst. "And guess where I found him?"

"In the bee and B…" Athis began.

"IN THE BEE AND BARB!" Torvar shouted over Athis, arms in the air.

Aela looked clearly annoyed by his volume. But she kept on eating.

"Turns out, Athis had been speaking with him all along!" He continued with excitement. As if it would have been a major plot-twist in his story.

"So you met the client. That's good." I said out loud as I broke myself some bread.

"Yeah! So there were these three people owing him money." Torvar continued his story "Some old shopkeeper, a blond chick who owned some ¨Bunkhouse¨ and, guess who, the very Innkeeper who's serving us Blackbrier mead as we went over the details of the contract!" Torvar again nearly shouted for excitement at the end.

"What then happened?" Ria asked curiously over the hearth fire as she was sipping mead.

"Well, it was late… and we were in Riften," Torvar answered her as if the answer had been obvious. "So we dran…"

"**You** drank…" Athis again corrected him.

"Yeeah, **I** drank, while old-man Athis here went to bed." Torvar patted Athis on his shoulder before he leaned back over the table to continue his story. "So I met the people, heard the rumors… did what I do best." He gestured away. "Earned quite a number of coin playing dice as well! I tell you it's all in the wrist…"

"The Contract!" Aela shouted over the table.

"Okey okey…" Torvar cleared his mind. "So, next morning we had three targets. Athis wanted the Innkeeper because…"

"I didn't feel like walking around Riften, extorting people for money…" Athis finished Torvar's sentence.

"So I had the shopkeeper and the blond!" Torvar continued in sync. "So after breakfast, I headed for the shop. Dusty old place. Can't remember the name. Nothing of real value anywhere... who even _buys_ anything in Riften?..." Torvar trailed of.

"Hey!" Njada shouted to get him back on track.

"Yeah! So guess what? He doesn't want to pay up." Torvar continued and made a face of ¨storytell-surprise¨ across the table. "So I grabbed my hammer and smashed…"

"Smashed his face in?!" Farkas intervened eagerly, suddenly taken by the story.

"Nooo…" Torvar continued as he gave Farkas a look. "I smashed his,… _Vase_… in." he finished with a prideful ¨tadaa¨- look. "And it worked! That brejolf g…"

"Brynjolf" Athis added.

"…uy had said I should smash his vase if he refused to pay!" Torvar continued as if Athis had never interrupted. "And he paid right up! ¨Don't destroy it. Worth more than the house.¨ Jadidadida..." Torvar gestured as he mimicked the shopkeeper in humor. "Broke an old vase, 400 Septims, right there!" Torvar triumphed.

"What about the blond?" Njada asked. I couldn't tell if she was curious or if she simply sought a continuation of the story.

"Oh I'll tell you bout the blond…" Torvar responded, suddenly turning serious as he leaned even further over the table. "I walked into her fine establishment… Stops at the bar to order mead… And up to me walks this _Gorgeous_ Nord woman. Hair flowed like silk, skin smooth as butter and eyes as deep as the night sky itself!" Torvar's gesturing turned frantic. "There was no way I could extort her! She was far too beautiful!"

"So you smashed her face in?" Farkas interrupted in excitement.

"What? No!?" Ria Shouted innocently in belief with her eyes wide as we all started laughing.

"Of course not!" Torvar snapped. "I sat down to drink my mead, in peace, and wondered how I should get the coin… and that's when I saw she had a statue of Dibella in a corner." Torvar looked around at us in sudden excitement. "And let me tell you the curves on that thing curved my hammer as well. And the bosom was wide enough Eorlund himself would trip backward into the Skyforge for its glory. And the buttocks, ooh, the buttocks were firm enough…"

Njada gave Torvar a sudden glare that nearly pushed him of his chair for the indecency in his words.

"Eah, uh statue, she had a f, she had a fine statue is all…" Torvar's voice broke. His face was suddenly red as the atmosphere turned even louder with laughter.

"So what did you do?" Skjor asked, suddenly open to the rest of Torvar's story. It surprised me.

"Well,… I've met maidens studying under the ¨Dibellian Arts¨ before." Torvar continued as he gave Skor an eyebrow-raising look. "So I walked up to her. Pointed towards her statue and said ¨I'd like to Dibella all over you¨" he finished with a self-satisfied look.

"Wha?... What does that even mean?..." Njada asked both confused and cynical. But Ria looked as if she knew what he was talking about, hiding blushed cheeks behind a mug of mead.

"By Shor if I know! Trick I learned from some Dibella worshippers long time ago." Torvar answered as he placed his hands behind his neck. "But it worked. Two minutes later, she was on top of me wearing _nothing_ but _Deardric boots_ and a _smile_." He finished with a smirk.

"And where in the name of Azura would she had gotten Deadric boots from?!" Athis burst out in disbelief.

"Oblivion? Shagged a Deadra for them?! How should I know?" Torvar answered.

"So you're telling me…" Athis continued. "A follower of Dibella's darker arts. Somehow managed to get in touch with a Deadra for the sole purpose of shagging his boots off?" Athis made a face as his eyes twitched. "Actually… That doesn't sound too farfetched."

"You're lying!" Ria laughed over the table.

"Am not!" Torvar turned to her as he shouted back. "She _had_ Deadric boots! I swear on Stendarr himself! And she wielded them so skillfully I even left her a note!..." Torvar calmed down. "Even signed it ¨Your Secret Lover¨" He finished as he gave Ria a wink.

"Did you at least get the coin?" Vilkas interrupted.

"That's the best part!" Torvar turned to Vilkas proudly. "I never asked, yet she paid me! For **my** services! Gave me a blue gem, and all."

"She did not!" Njada applied.

"Like I said,…" Torvar turned towards Njada as he threw a Saphire on the table. "Sometimes a ¨Bent hammer¨ works better than a straight one."

"Next time you're in Riften…" Kodlak suddenly said as he started slurping the remaining soup from the bottom of his plate. "Bring me those boots."


	19. That's the only way I can win

"Fifth match this month? Is it?" Athis asked as he sat down by the tables in the courtyard.

"Jepp" Njada answered as she passed him a wooden mug and poured him a drink.

"He doesn't give up, does he?" Athis continued as he took the mug.

"50 Septims on Vilkas!" Torvar pitched in as he knocked on the table with his mug to draw their attention.

"By Asura, you don't have 50 Septims," Athis stated with annoyance in his voice as he turned toward Torvar, sitting next to him. "Besides, it would be a losing bet."

"Athis is right." Njada said, scratching her left temple. "They've been dueling for over a year and Vilkas hasn't lost once."

"That's why I'll bet 50!" Torvar continued with enthusiasm. "Nothing to lose."

"Well if no one's betting against you there's nothing to _win_ either, dimwit," Athis answered sharply with a taste of insult on his tongue.

"Oh come on, gray skin. I'll give you good odds," Torvar said with a smirk.

"What did you say?..." Athis slowly asked, his red Dunmer eyes piercing Torvard's smirk.

"I'll… give… you… good… odds." Torvar repeated himself, his smirk growing even wider.

Mugs flew over and spilled their content as Athis flew up from the bench, pushing over the long bench they both had been sitting on. Torvar fell over backward as the bench turned beneath him, ye in one fluent motion he rolled over to gain his footing and quickly heaved himself up to a stance, fists lifted in front of his smiling face.

"Before that, you drunk!" Athis yelled in rage, he too aiming his fists.

"Enough!" Njada interrupted, throwing her mug at the back of Athis's head. "They've started!"

* * *

_Just breathe,… focus and breathe…_ I thought to myself as I slowly found my footing on the hardened dirt. Dirt hardened by years and years of wear, feet stomping and stepping upon it until it had almost turned as hard as stone.

I only need to see through his moves, this once. But so far I never had. I've long since lost count on how many duels we've had, I knew only I had zero wins, and yet I had never been able to see through him. Or foresee his moves. Farkas was easy, straightforward and fierce. But Vilkas, Vilkas never moved unless I did. And I couldn't see through his movement if I had to focusing on my own.

"Wanna do this today or not?" Vilkas said impatiently, holding his seemingly relaxed stance with his sword arm hanging by his right side. But I now knew better than to believe it _relaxed_. It was a stance ready to in an instant turn into any and all stances, from which he would counter my move no matter what. That was his strength. Since our very first duel that had been his winning move. Using my movements against me. And no matter how I moved he would counter it. That was his only move that I _could_ foresee.

_Just breeeathe and focus…_ I again reminded myself as I slowly moved my left foot forward on the solid dirt, and slightly tightening my fingers around the handle of my great axe. Unless he makes the first move, I've already lost. But how can I make him make the first move? After all… he never moves unless I do. I need some way to distract him. But how? Throw dirt? No… he would make his move the moment I kneeled down. A feint? No… my axe is too heavy for feints. Taunts? No, Vilkas is to levelheaded to fall for taunts. I _have_ to make him make the first move… that's the only way I can win.

Suddenly a loud wooden noise interrupted our duel, if one could yet call it a duel, as Athis started yelling by the tables. By instinct, Vilkas turned his eyes towards the ruckus that had started a ¨outside distraction.¨ Of course! I took the opportunity and made my move as I plunged myself towards him, dirt spewing behind my feet. Plain old luck!

Axe head on my right I began its swing towards his head, Vilkas quickly returned his sharp silver-blue eyes on me. _Force him to move back!_ I thought as I swung my axe. Vilkas tilted his torso and head backward, barely yet skillfully evading my attack, and with an instant flowing motion he turned his sword arm to counter, aiming for the open areas beneath my vision.

_He dodged! Of course he did! I knew he would! If he hadn't his head would be flying!_ My mind raced as he evaded. Not that I in any way wanted to kill him, but since my ¨turning¨ I felt our duels had gradually turned almost dangerously violent.

Next, he would counter, I knew he would. But where? My torso's too heavily armored. Hips, waist, or armpits? That's where I would strike. But which one? No choice but to guard them all.

Mid swing I lifted my right leg and forced my right elbow down, sacrificing balance for protection. A sharp metallic sound as his sword rang against the gray metal of my vambrace, weight of my axe now pulling me left. Quickly my foot found safety in the ground and using the momentum of my axe I forced my body forward, slamming my shoulder into Vilkas's chest. His feet left the ground as he intentionally jumped, my push simply pushing him back through the air as his feet landed steadily and firmly on the ground a mere pace or two away from me.

_Don't stop!_ My mind screamed as my axe, now behind me, began its upward swing to plunge down towards Vilkas. A swift scrape as his sword parried against my handle and his body sidestepped its descend, gracefully guiding it into the ground. His sword whipped in the air as it turned to counter for the back of my neck. Using the weight of my axe I threw myself forwards and felt his sword nag at the hair by my neck as it swung dangerously close to my head. Heavy armor restricting my movement I barely managed to roll into a kneel with my axe still steady in my hands.

My back was open. Dirt flew as I twisted around, hard graveled ground scraping at my armored knee. A wide grip on my handle as I lifted it to guard against the attack I knew he would deliver. Sure enough, Skyforge steel rang in unison as they violently touched. A cold feeling ran down my spine as I finally became aware of the adrenaline flushing my system.

With my left arm I jerked the handle of my axe to cause Vilkas's sword, weighted by his body, to scrape against it towards the ground. And like a hook, the inside of my axe head locked itself behind his neck. His eyes sharpened as they met mine, and for the second time in my life, I saw them burning yellow.

_Now!_ I turned my still kneeling body and tugged hard at his neck. Dust and dirt flew as I sent him headfirst into the ground next to me. _I won?… No!_ Vilkas's left arm suddenly swung its clenched sword towards me horizontally along the ground, his face was still in the dirt. _When did he switch sword arm?! Mid-fall?_

Reflex kicked in and I let go of my axe, still locked around his neck, and threw myself back to evade. Vilkas pushed himself from the ground, bending his knees beneath him, and regained his footing as I landed on my ass. Before I could stand he was already on top of me, aiming the tip of his sword towards my throat, my axe lying by his feet.

"You're unarmed…" He said, with his regular silver-blue eyes returned to him. "You know the rules."

"Lost again!" Torvar shouted from the tables as I rose and brushed the dirt off my knees, sighting with self-disappointment. "We've got a mug ready for you right here!"

* * *

"Vilkas," Skjor said commandingly as he leaned against one of the pillars in the courtyard, arms crossed.

"Aye," Vilkas answered as he walked up the five steps that separated the training area from the courtyard, wiping away a slight nosebleed with the back of his hand.

"You sure fight defensively these days," Skjor stated with his one eye on Vilkas.

Vilkas sighed heavily as he drew his fingers through his coal-black hair and for a moment turned his vision to the other side of the courtyard, to for a moment study the now mead-drinking-man he had just dueled.

"Well, Skjor…" Vilkas began as he leaned in closer to Skjor. "Don't let him hear I said this but, for the last month… that's the only way I can win."


	20. Skjor

"Where is he?" Skjor asked as his impatience slowly rocked him back and forth on the wooden chair he long ago had made his own. Arms crossed and feet on the table, an undisciplined picture he would never show had anyone else but her been present.

"He'll be here." Aela answered softly as she scraped her dagger against the flint in her left hand, rekindling the blackened heartfire of Jorrvaskr.

"He should be here by now." Skjor said slowly as he leaned further back, tilting his head towards the thin line of blood-orange morning sunshine slowly climbing into the meadhall, as the sun licked the horizon, through the upper windows.

"Yes." Aela said as she turned her lips towards the glowing sparks, breathing life into the heartfire. A gush of charcoal scented wind rose as the fire fed upon dried twigs and wood, slowly spreading its warm light across the meadhall.

"I trained him better than this." Skjor muttered, taking his legs of the table and leaning forward with impatience.

"I know you did." Aela said as she walked towards Skjor, gently leaned forward and put her hand softly on his cheek, bringing her head towards his.

"Aela…" Skjor interrupted as he softly pushed her hand away. "We agreed, not within Jorrvaskr." He said as he slightly shook his head left and right, his one eyed gaze meeting her moonlight eyes.

Aela sighed out a ¨we did…¨ as she rose, turned towards the table and walked over to lean against it, slightly fixing her auburn hair before crossing her arms in her usual manner. She gave him a quick glare before turning her head forward, avoiding eye contact. A minute passed in silence as they both sat in their own separate thoughts.

"So why is he late?" Skjor again said, more to kill the silence than to actually want an answer.

"How am I supposed to know?" Aela spat out, giving Skjor a slight look of annoyance. "We said by ¨sunrise,¨ that hasn't happened yet. It's not unlike you to be impatient, but now you almost sound like Vignar. What's with that?"

Skjor turned silent as he met her sharp glare. He clenched his jaw to keep himself from answering, though he had no answer, as he knew better than to ¨poke¨ at her when she was annoyed. Oddly enough her short temper was something he had always found charming, just like how he found it charming how her cheeks turned slightly red when she angered.

Aela sighted and relaxed her shoulders. "He _just_ got married, I'm sure he is,… occupied." she shrugged. "He'll be here."

For another moment Skjor sat in silence as Aela watched him in thought, until Skjor slowly rose from his chair and walked over to the heartfire, Aela now barely watching him as he threw more logs into the fire and returned to his chair. He sat heavily down and leaned forward, scratching his chin to again sink deep in thought. Aela looked at him as he half unaware leaned back and stretched out his left leg to slowly massage his knee with his left hand. She hadn't seen him do that before.

"Something wrong?" Aela asked.

"It's nothing." Skjor quickly answered as he jerked into his usual disciplined position, cleared his throat and turned towards Aela. ¨The sun is rising, he should be here by now.¨ He sputtered sternly, as to change the subject.

Aela gave him a criticizing look. She had long ago learned to tell when he was lying, especially a lie as obvious as this one. But she also knew he was far too stubborn and proud to admit to it once he had set his mind to it. So, like so many times before, she let it go with a sigh.

"By Hircine,..." She started. "If you're so impatient, why not just take someone else? Njada and Aethis have both been asking to come along on the heavier contracts. They're both willing,… and strong."

"You know this isn't a contract." Skjor pitted in. "And we're not going up against some regular bandits and drunks, we're going up against the Silver Hand. And as much as I hate to admit it, they actually have decent training." His lips sharpened as he said those words. "You know only a member of the Circle will do."

"A _wolf_, you mean." Aela said as she gently jumped up to sit on the thick oak table. "So why not bring Vilkas? Or Farkas then?"

"We've been over this." Skjor said. "Vilkas wouldn't care to hunt down the Silver Hand without a good reason, there is too much of ¨Kodlak¨ within him. And Farkas,… well you know him. No… it needs to be ¨him¨". Skjor rubbed his eyebrows and drew his hand over his left eye, his blind eye, in slight annoyance as to again have this discussion.

"Again,… I just don't understand why you need it to be him?" Aela sighted. "Farkas would be just as fine. After all, Farkas have been training since he learned to walk. The new-blood has only been here a fistful of years. Hadn't it been for you convincing me, I wouldn't even have agreed to vote him into the Circle in the first place."

"No he won't." Skjor answered, referring to Farkas. "Have you seen them during training?" Skjor asked as he turned towards Aela, pressing his lips together in seriousness.

"As much as you? Can't say I have." Aela answered, rolling her eyes before continuing. "But I know he's good."

"Good?..." Skjor mumbled as to disagree. "Considering he barely had any prior training, he was ¨good¨ when he joined us…" Skjor bit his lower lip in thought. "I tried to break him, you know." Skjor said as he gave Aela a raised eyebrow look before he continued. "We already had plenty of members to feed, and not so much gold. And quite frankly, I just didn't like how Kodlak accepted him into our ranks without a second thought… That was unlike even him."

Aela leaned back on the table, putting weight on her arms, and turned her sight towards the ceiling. "So why didn't you?"

"Oh I tried!" Skjor almost laughed. "That ¨Farmer's boy¨ showing up on our door steps, wearing that ridiculously oversized piece of armor, almost shitting himself when we first spoke." Skjor smiled as he spoke, a rare sight. "And then I started training him. Pushed him beyond his limits, day after day. And how I waited to wake up one day and see him gone, bag packed and all. But he just kept showing up for training. And before I knew it, that oversized piece of armor actually fit. And his body actually could keep up with my training… exceeded it even…"

Aela tilted her head towards Skjor, one eyebrow raised. Skjor just sat with his elbows on his knees and leaned his chin on his fists. Eyes forward in thought.

"He learned quickly…" Skjor continued in a low voice, now speaking more to himself rather than with Aela. "After his body started keeping up with my training his head just began soaking in knowledge. Every technique I taught him he learned in days, rather than the weeks it took the soldiers when I still was with the Imperial legion. Shield, sword, bow, he learned it all. I thought he was crazy when he wanted a great sword, but after just two months of training he wielded it almost as good as Farkas, who have never wielded anything else. And when he made his own great axe,… even Eorlund admitted it was good work."

A ¨thud¨ interrupted him as Aela jumped of the table to walk to the heartfire to feed it more logs. He watched her as she turned back and again jumped back up on the table. She didn't speak, just gave him a curious, yet at the same time cynical, look as she made herself comfortable again.

"I got curious…" Skjor said as he met her moon white eyes. "I wanted to see how he would take to being moon-born."

"You convinced me to turn him faster than any other member, out of your own curiosity alone?" Aela suddenly asked, not able to keep shut any longer.

"You saw him turn. Heard how Eorlund had to reforge his armor after his turning." Skjor answered with a serious look. "That has never happened before…"

Aela parted her lips and drew air as if to speak but suddenly closed them and fell silent.

"And his training afterwards." Skjor continued. "He was like a new man. I've yet to see him sweat during training since. His sparring sessions with Farkas,… I'm no longer sure he's even taking them seriously." Skjor turned his sight towards the floor, clearly again in thought. "I don't know but,… I have this feeling there's something,… ¨special¨ about him."

"Have you gone mad,… Skjor?" Aela slowly asked, interrupting the silence that for a moment had lived. "I've never heard you speak this much about any single man. Not to mention with such,… admiration? You really think he could take on Farkas?"

Skjor chuckled for a moment before answering. "In arm strength? I don't know. But Farkas fights on instinct, and always have. His battle experience works his muscle memory, not his techniques and strategy. ¨He¨ however uses his head,… which would outdo Farkas's straightforward fighting style any day."

"And Vilkas?…" Aela continued.

"That,… I don't know." Skjor answered. "He's most certainly stronger than Vilkas. But Vilkas is smarter and he too uses his head well. And he uses his experience far better than most." Skjor paused briefly before he continued. "That's why we need ¨Him¨ on this mission. He hasn't been in a ¨real¨ fight since before he turned. He still has much to learn and need experience. He needs to face ¨death¨ in order to improve."

"Careful Skjor…" Aela said as she gave him a playful look. "It almost sounds like you think he will take your title as ¨The Strongest of the Companions.¨"

"Ha!" Skjor laughed. "I'd like to see him try."

"You two still here?" Tilma's old voice asked, as she walked up the basement stairs on the other side of the meadhall.

"Tilma!" Aela said abruptly as she jumped of the table and turned towards the old woman. "How long have you?…"

"Oh hush, child." Tilma interrupted, waving her hand as she walked towards the table.

"Eavesdropping again are we, Tilma." Skjor said as he rose from his chair. "I thought such behavior was beneath you?"

"Oh you know Jorrvaskr has ears, young Skjor." Tilma answered. "But lucky for the two of _you_, Jorrvaskr doesn't have a mouth." She continued as she gave them both a wink.

Aela exhaled audibly through her nose and jerked her head aside and crossed her arms.

"Appreciate it." Skjor said as he gave Aela a reassuring look.

"Anyway." Tilma continued. "I need to get started on breakfast. You two eating before you leave?"

"Aela will." Skjor quickly answered. "But I'm leaving."

"Skjor?" Aela interrupted, frowning her brows in confusion.

"You'll catch up." Skjor said. "Like I said, it's the Silver Hand we're going up against. It'll be good if I recon the place before you two show up. And I move faster on my own."

"Companions don't fight without a Shield-Sibling." Aela said with a look.

"No need to remind me of that." Skjor reassured her. "I don't plan to fight, just taking a look before you two show up. Besides, my impatience has gotten to me, my legs wish to walk. You know where to meet up?"

"Sure…" Aela answered coldly as Skjor grabbed his gear and turned for the door.

"Skjor." Aela said, with a stern yet slight look of worry, stopping him in his tracks. She slightly bit her lower lip before continuing. "Be…"

"I will." Skjor answered, interrupting her sentence as he grabbed the door handle and left.


	21. Old Warrior

"Good morning, Skjor." Anoriath waved as he caught sight of Skjor walking down the stairs to the marketplace.

The Companions had always been held in high regard amongst the citizens of Whiterun. Their history was older than the city itself, after all. Not greeting them on sight was considered to be disrespectful and beyond rude. Some elders even believed neglecting to greet them brought bad luck.

"Heading out to hunt?" Anorath asked as Skjor gave a nod, in acknowledge to his greeting.

"Something like that." Skjor continued walking across the marketplace, determined discipline in his steps.

Anorath hastily grabbed his bow and quiver from his stand and slung them over his shoulder before hurrying after Skjor. As he tried to keep up with the man, it became clear to Anorath that Skjor had once been a soldier… maybe even a bit too serious of a soldier.

"I'll join you," Anorath wheezed between hurried breaths as he caught up to Skjor. "My stand is almost empty and you Companions sure eat a lot… And I'm expecting Tilma today."

"Training will do that," Skjor stated, keeping his eyes forward without slowing in his steps. "But I'm afraid what I'm hunting is above you."

"Oh, let me guess… predators?" Anorath said, his voice tinged with sarcasm, as they approached the city gate.

"Prey…" Skjor said coldly as he hailed the guard, signaling for him to open the gate.

Stunned by Skjors answer Anorath stopped in his tracks as he watched Skjor leave through the city gate, a sudden feeling of unease in the pit of his stomach. He'd always highly respected the Companions, Skjor more than most, but somehow his conversations with Skjor always ended with a chill down his spine.

* * *

"Ysmir hold me!"

As one of my legs got caught in the leg of my pants, I toppled over the chair holding the rest of my clothes. Ysolda laughed from our bed at the ridiculous sight of her half-naked husband sprawled across the old wooden floor, defeated by his own inability to dress.

"Oh mighty Companion…" She said with sarcasm and smile as she rose, wearing nothing but one of the many fur blankets decorating our bed. "It's a good thing people don't send contracts on trousers, or your reputation might… ¨trip!¨" Grinning at her own joke..

"Ha... ha…" I got up from the floor and pulled up my pants and fastened my belt around my waist, as Ysolda held out my tunic.

"Shouldn't you get dressed as well?" I asked kindly as I stood up, taking my tunic from her.

"I'm not in a rush… The Khajiits will be here all day," she stated, a soft smile on her lips as she tucked strands of fiery red hair, still tousled from earlier, over her left ear. "You, on the other hand, should get going. It's already light outside." She gestured towards the window.

"Crap!" I hastily pulled the tunic over my head.

"Well, don't blame me for being late," She said with a tease in her eyes. "I told you to leave half an hour ago."

"Yeah, it was worth it," I said, a confident smirk on my lips as I turned and walked to the kitchen to don my boots.

"Wait." Ysolda interrupted quietly, as I had donned my boots and reached for the old wooden door handle. She tiptoed towards me on the cold floor, holding the fur blanket tight around her shoulders. "You forgot something."

Arching my eyebrows in confusion, I tried to figure out what I possibly could have forgotten. She leaned towards me on her toes and gave me a quick peck with her lips against my left cheek.

"There," she said with a soft smile, "Now you have everything."

I couldn't help but smile as I felt a slight blush spread across my face. "Thank you?" I looked down into her eyes with warmth as she leaned against my chest, her amber eyes so innocently gazing into mine.

"You return safe now," she said as she skipped back toward the bedroom, sound of bare feet against wooden planks as she went.

"By Ysgramor, I'm going out with Skjor! And Aela!" I shouted after her as she rounded the corner. "What could possibly go wrong?"

* * *

The morning sun was just above the horizon as it bathed the land in its golden glow. There was a chill in the air as Skjor walked along the road south of Whiterun. With no trees covering the tundra, the autumn winds blew harshly across the fields of Whiterun, drawing waves in the tall brown and yellow grass as it went. Fluff from tundra cotton the size of leaves danced gently in the air like giant snowflakes.

This was one of the many reasons Eorlund used wolf furs for the inner layer of the wolf armor. It protected against the cold climate of Skyrim, as well as the harsh winds of the tundra surrounding their home city. Still, the wind had a bite to it as Skjor pulled his red cape over his shoulder and around his neck. The cape, decorated by the golden broidery of Wuuthrad, served mostly as a badge of honor for the members of the Circle. It provided little protection against the elements, but it worked well as a makeshift scarf.

There had been a reason Skjor had been anxious to leave early, other than his usual impatient temper and belief in timeliness. His knee ached... and walking seemed to ease the dull pain earlier creeping beneath his kneecap. It was an old injury. Old even by the time The Companions found him and offered him to join in their ranks. It had been given to him during the Great War, almost 30 years ago, from a clumsy mistake on the battlefield. And so he had never blamed anyone but his younger self for it. But to Skjor it was more than a mistake. It was an embarrassment. So he had hidden it well long ago, swearing to never tell anyone about it nor its origin. For weakness was something he had always found… disgusting. For only the weak were defeated.

After the Great War, he left the Imperial Army to become a sellsword. After all, fighting was all that he knew. But because of his injury, he'd never be able to fight multiple opponents at once again, a fact he had been painfully aware of. So he sought contracts amongst the nobles across Tamriel. A quest which eventually took him to a country to the far northwest of Tamriel. To High Rock, land of mountains and home of the Bretons, where politics ruled the battlefield.

He soon found himself living a life of comfort. The money was good, and the women were good. Hired to protect nobles, he knew he'd only have to fight the occasional ¨duel-in-my-name-to-protect-my-honor¨ duels the nobles so often enjoyed sporting with amongst one another, and perhaps the occasional lone political assassin trying to poison the glasses of wine. But the assassins were never a real threat… at least not to him. Unlike the nameless Orc Skjors employer once pitted him against simply for entertainment and gambling. As the crowded arena cheered Skjor had felt little but a hollow victory as he stood over his fallen opponent, wearing a new scar across his newly blinded eye.

Eventually, the comfort of good life caught up to him and his heart once again yearned for battle. Real battle, where he could once again feel the thrill of fear, the warmth of rushing blood. Little did it help that the grape-eating nobles attitudes toward him were nothing more than to use him as a tool for their games. Their undisciplined lifestyles of luxury began to annoy him, to the point where he found himself loathing them, even hating them. Soon the hate became self-hatred for allowing them to use him the way they did. He had never found honor in dueling in their names, but now he had even begun losing his own self-respect… That's when he met Kodlak.

Offered with the promise to fight for honor, to teach, and, more importantly to Skjor, to choose his own battles, he accepted Kodlak's offer without question and together they traveled east, into the cold and frozen land of Skyrim. His years as a Companion began as he proudly named Jorrvaskr his home. He had the knowledge and experience to teach and quickly took on that role. As he once again trained with the mightiest of warriors, he was cruelly reminded of his old injury. He feared he could never again become as strong as his former self, nor as strong as the very men he now trained. So he hid his shame and fear behind false confidence and eyes of judging discipline until his very presence demanded respect.

To his surprise, it worked. Within a short number of years they made him a respected member of the Circle. And as a member of the Circle, it didn't take long until Askar, Kodlak's predecessor as Harbinger, offered him strength in the blessed form of Lycanthropy. Once again, given the promise of strength, Skjor accepted without question.

And he loved it. He loved how the bestial blood gave him back his previous strength, no… enhanced it beyond his comprehension. He loved his enhanced senses. He loved his enhanced strength and reflexes. He loved it all. But mostly, he loved how the throbbing pain from his old injury had vanished… Healed by the wolf-blood now coursing through his veins. Healed by this ¨Gift of Hircine¨ he placed his knife against his open fist and swore… On his lycanthropic blood, he swore… to never again become the injured weak man he had been for far too many years. For to be weak was to be defeated. And now… he had defeated the very weakness he so shamefully had worn for far too long.

More than youthful vigor returned. He once again fought, trained, and made a name for himself, once again feeling the rush of war as he battled. ¨Kodlak and Skjor fighting one-hundred and one orc berserkers,¨ ¨Skjor the Scarred,¨ ¨The strongest Companion.¨ He took honor and pride in them all, for none had come easy. And none of them possible had it not been for this ¨Gift of Hircine.¨

Thus his years passed with pride. Until the day he came face-to-face with the one opponent no man could ever wish to defeat, no matter their strength… Passing of time.

He had become old. His body still strong and his senses sharp, but as much as he wanted to stubbornly deny it, he had become an old man. Like Kodlak had before him. The full head of blond hair he once wore had whitened and thinned, lingering only around his temples and neck. His bladder had begun to fail him, as almost every night he woke with the urgent need to urinate. Even his pecker would more times than not refuse his will, as he shared a bed with his beloved Aela. But worst of all, his old injury had resurfaced. Slowly creeping back inside his knee.

But he would deny it all, both to the others and even to himself. For he had sworn long ago… on his lycanthropic blood… to never become the weak man he once had been. For to be weak was to be defeated.


	22. The Silver Hand

"You're late." Aela leaned against the oak table in her usual cross armed pose, slightly annoyed by my belated arrival, as I entered Jorrvaskr.

"I know." I exclaimed, shutting the heavy doors behind me, Ysolda's kiss still warm on my cheek.

"And where's your armor?" She asked, clearly dissatisfied with my casual appearance.

"Downstairs." I answered, as I hurried across the room towards the basement stairs.

"You don't take it home?" Aela judgingly asked.

"What's the use of owning a mannequin if I don't use it?" I spat, almost annoyed at her questioning.

"I'll make you something to eat, dear." Tilma pitched in as I went down the stairs, stirring in the cooking pot hanging from an iron stand over the heartfire.

"He doesn't have time to eat." Aela turned her head towards Tilma, giving her an impatient look.

"Can't fight on an empty stomach, now can he?" Tilma answered, indifferently ignoring Aela's look.

"Just get me something for the road!" I shouted from beneath the stairs.

When I entered the basement, I was instantly faced with darkness. Tilma had lit a few candles here and there when she had awoken, but far from all of them. Their flickering lights barely covered the hallway. It had been months since Skjor and Aela turned me, yet I still hadn't adapted to how quickly my ¨new¨ eyes adjusted to the dark. In mere seconds the few lights decorating the hall with their dim lights seemed to be more than enough for me to see as clearly as though all of them had been lit.

The door to the shared bedchamber was still shut, which meant none of the others had yet to awaken. Confirmed by the clear snoring from within. I didn't need to guess to know Torvar was the loudest contestant amongst the four sleepers within.

As I continued, I had no choice but to walk past Farkas's and Vilkas's room, as their rooms flanked the hallway that led to mine. Torvar's snoring was nothing compared to the loud beast resting behind Farkas's door. The sounds were enough to make cream turn to butter. Luckily, Farkas's snoring dampened the sounds leaving his opposite door. Muffled shouts and screams could be heard from within as I passed. It wasn't the first time I had heard Vilkas scream in his sleep, but I never got used to it. I hadn't known nightmares were one of the downsides of lycanthropy until I experienced them myself. One of the many things Skjor and Aela had left out when they turned me.

¨How can something that gives this kind of prowess be a curse?¨ Skjor had stated with certainty in his voice.

Yet I never got used to the nightmares, nor hearing the others experiencing them. It was nothing but an accursed, mental torture. I didn't know why, but Vilkas seemed to suffer them more than others. He had, after all, looked sleep deprived ever since I first met him four years ago.

Since I moved in with Ysolda, I mostly used my room for work and storage. My bed was still here, but since I rarely slept in it, my desk had become the main reason for keeping the room. The growing piles of letters and requests from Riften decorating my desk clearly showed how much I loathed the paperwork part of my responsibilities. My writing had improved drastically since before I was handed the responsibility, but because I could now write well didn't mean I enjoyed it. Not one bit…

"Aela will _surely_ take my ear if I don't hurry," I thought as I stripped my wolf armor off the mannequin standing in the corner. Donning heavy armor alone was close to impossible without an extra pair of hands. Even with help it would easily take far longer time than either Aela or I had. Something Eorlund once again obviously had taken into account when designing the wolf armor.

The inner layer of the wolf armor, a skirted wolf-fursuit, slipped easily over my head. But the challenge came with the dull gray armor plating. Usually one would need help with getting into the heavy armor pieces, but since Eorlund split the chest plate and replaced the straps with buttons, all I had to do was place the back piece on my bed and attach the chest piece as I lie back on top of it. After that equipping the armored boots and vambraces was easy. Still it would take more than the couple of minutes I knew Aela's patience had decided I had.

* * *

Light snow began to fall as Skjor entered the wooded area an hour east of Whiterun. One could say it was the first winter snow, but since most of Skyrim lived under constant winter and frost, that statement would hardly be true. The tall pines lightly swayed back and forth above Skjor's head as the winds of Skyrim's early autumn caressed their branches with their touch. The sound of squirrels squeaking, small birds chirping, and the calming murmur of the White River, flowing to Skjor's left, gave the forest an atmosphere that begged for calm with its charmingly pacifying aura.

Skjor had always found peace in nature, for he found it was the calmest form of Nirn, and so did the restless wolf within him. The wolf Skjor long ago had managed to leash into submission through self-discipline and will alone. A ¨leash¨ Skjor would instantly jerk at any sign of disobedience. And Skjor have taken great pride in taming his wolf, for if he could conquer his own inner wolf, he could conquer any man… A philosophy he had engraved into his heart long ago.

* * *

"All done," I said as I came up the stairs and entered the main hall of Jorrvaskr.

"Took you long enough." Aela was leaning on the table in the same spot, arms still crossed with impatience.

"Where's Skjor?" As I looked around the room, I realized I hadn't seen Skjor yet. For him to be late was beyond unlikely. Circle member or not, he always punished me with ten pushups per minute I had been late for training.

"He already left." Judging by the tone in her voice, she clearly blamed my belatedness for his early departure. "Just minutes before you came…"

"He must have quite a head start then…" I thought as I fastened my dagger at my waist.

"Well, no time to waste." Aela grabbed her bow off the table and began heading for the door, nodding at me to follow.

"Hold on, dear," Tilma said as she grabbed a small bag and approached me. "Just a little something for the road."

* * *

The place was under heavier guard than Skjor had anticipated. Scouting the place had been easy. Being in the middle of the woods, the surrounding fauna offered Skjor more than enough camouflage as he had crawled beneath the bushes to take a closer look.

The information had been good, but Skjor admitted he had underestimated its content. This wasn't just a ¨camp¨ the Silver Hand used. It was a base, with a training area, kitchen, stables, wood chopping block, and more… All surrounding the central area of the old stone fort they had appropriated for their base.

Skjor counted at least two dozen Silver Hands working or pacing about the area and there was no way of telling how many more they had stationed inside.

Skjor exhaled deeply as he began questioning his strategy. Three Companions against an entire fort of Silver Hands? The odds were not impossible, but they weren't in their favor either.

Skjor scratched behind his ear in thought. He needed to think this over… Best way to do that was to draw back and await Aela and the ¨new-blood¨ at the agreed upon spot. At least he'll have some time to think while he waited.

* * *

Light snow slowly drifted around us as we walked. The fields of Whiterun, still yellow and brown, flowed with the winds as a thin layer of white powder flew from under our feet with each step.

"So where are we going?" I asked as I walked next to Aela.

"Skjor didn't tell you?" Aela gave me a look.

"Other than to meet the two of you, no?"

Aela slightly chewed on the inside of her lip as she searched for words to give me an explanation. "How much do you know about the Silver Hand?" She finally started after a moment of walking in silence.

"Not much…" I had faced the Silver Hand only once before, at Dustman's Cairn with Farkas, and Farkas hadn't told me much when I asked back then. Or maybe he didn't know any more beyond what he told me. After all, Farkas didn't own the sharpest of heads. "Farkas said they hunt werewolves, right?"

"Sounds like Farkas. Close enough, I guess." Aela tightened her archery vambrace before continuing, "They're warriors, not that unlike us. And like us they fight for honor in Ysgramor's name."

"For Ysgramor? Why?" I knew most Nords revered many heroes of old such as Ysgramor and Ysmir, and Shor the forefather of men. But to think the Silver Hand fought to honor Ysgramor? When they had made it their purpose to fight one of the remaining legacies Ysgramor had left behind, The Companions? That didn't make sense.

"You'll have to ask Vignar for details." Aela answered with a look. "I never cared much for history, so I only know the short version."

"Which is?" Raising my eyebrows, I gave her a look of slight curiosity.

"I heard they used to be Companions." Aelas tone became more serious as she spoke, yet there was a hint of ridicule in her voice. "Some hundred years ago, when The Companions became werewolves, they split in two. One side accepted Hircine's gift and promise for strength, while the other side believed true Nords should fight using their _own_ strength and not rely on promises from a Deadric Prince. And since werewolves can't enter Sovngarde to feast alongside Ysgramor in the afterlife, they saw that as _proof _of their belief. So war broke out between the two…" Aela gestured with one of her hands as she spoke. "Of course the werewolves won with ease and the wolfblood remain at Jorrvaskr till this day, while the other side named themselves the Silver Hand and scurried off in dishonor to hide. We've been fighting them ever since, whenever they'd stick their heads up from their hiding spots. They never really were a threat, but for the last six months or so it seems they've started recruiting. So Skjor figured we'd take the fighting to _them _for once. Before their numbers become a real threat."

This was definitely news to me. Looking at the snow-covered road in front of us, my mind wobbling with thoughts. They used to be Companions? ¨True¨ Nords? Your _own_ strength? Is that why they, like us, search for pieces of Wuuthrad? Some of the things Aela had said made sense to me. Could the enhanced strengths and senses that came with lycanthropy really be called my own power? Kodlak had even hinted me the same philosophy on afterlife.

"But… weren't they right?" I turned my head towards Aela, almost afraid to ask.

"Ha! You sound like the old man…" Judging disagreement was in her voice. "Listen… This is the way I see it. There are those who are _strong_ and those who are _weak_, and the strong will always defeat the weak. Something that gives this kind of strength isn't a curse, no matter what the old man says. If he's worried about some mead-swilling afterlife in Sovngarde, he's free to pursue it. I'll take the glories of the hunt right here." Her moon white eyes almost pierced me as she truly believed her preaching. "And trust me when I say: Your strength is your own…" Aela aimed her head straight ahead and picked up her pace, she was done with this conversation.

Perhaps Aela was right… How was I to know? All I knew was that after my turning I had gotten significantly stronger in almost every way. And I liked it. Maybe that was the only thing that mattered? That I liked it. Training had become easy to the point that I rarely lost my breath or became fatigued. The only downsides were… well, they were what they were. As for the afterlife? I still wasn't sure if I even believed in such a thing. It wasn't like anyone ever came back to tell. At least not that I knew of…

* * *

"Thought we hadn't noticed you, did you?"

Skjor instinctively rose from his campfire as the men aiming their bows at him came out of the surrounding trees. Hand instantly on his blade hilt, he took a defensive stance and quickly scanned his surroundings. Ten, eleven, twelve of them…

It was rare for him to be taken by surprise, but the Silver Hands' movement had been far more silent than he thought them to be. Even their scents had been masked. But as soon as the initial alarm settled in him it didn't seem _that_ surprising anymore. They were used to hunting werewolves. Of course they'd train and prepare against their enhanced hearing and sense of smell as well.

A short, deep ¨hum¨ left his throat as he recognized the severity of his situation. He knew he could take on twelve men, easily, if not for the archers. But without a shield sibling, his back would be constantly exposed, and having an open back when surrounded isn't the best of situations when fighting archers. Might as well paint a target on one's back. This would be well above more than equal fight.

"Drop your sword and you won't be hurt," one of the men said harshly. Judging by his armor, heavier than the rest, he must be in charge of the group.

Won't be hurt? Skjor's eyes sharpened at the statement as his fingers slowly made themselves comfortable around his sword hilt. Silver Hands usually attacked to kill werewolves on sight. Did the man indicate surrender was an option? Why?

"You want me alive?" Distrust in his voice as he kept his eyes on the men.

"Oh, I'm afraid _Krev_ has plans for you, wolf." With a sadistic grin the leader gestured for his men to lower their bows and draw their blunt clubs and poles.

"Well that changes things," Skjor thought as a thin, discreet smile spread across his lips. If they weren't allowed to lethally wound him, then this fight had turned _more _than easy.

"Come then." Skjor drew his sword and took up his stance. "I'm not going down without a fight."

"There's _twelve_ of us, against _one_ of you!" Confident, the leader gestured with his hand for the men to move.

A silent laugh left Skjor's nose. He knew no matter the number of opponents, there wouldn't be room around him for more than five to attack at once. And with no archers to worry about, all he had to do was end them swiftly as they came within his reach.

"No. There's only five of you," Skjor said with hidden glee as his muscles prepared to move.

Three of the men approached at once, holding their clubs confidently. As the middle man swung his club high, Skjor instantly ducked and dashed beneath his arm, sword following to slash his open armpit. Blood flowed from the open wound, followed by a scream of pain that was instantly silenced as Skjor's blade pierced through the man's neck and left through his gaping mouth. As quickly as Skjor's blade had entered the man's neck, it left to block the incoming attack from his left. Skjor's blade whipped away the incoming club and twisting for a counter. The second man grunted in pain as he fell forward, propelled by his attack, towards Skjor. Skjor grabbed the man's now bleeding wrist, turned and threw the man over his shoulder into the third incoming man, hindering his charge. They both fell on top of each other onto the snowy ground, barely regaining their senses before the cold pain of Skyforge steel found its way through both of them in a single thrust.

Three men lay dead around him in growing puddles of red. With a whip of his blade, Skjor threw a line of red in the snow beside him and turned towards the leader, his facial expression a mixture between seriousness and indifference.

The men were clearly shocked at the sudden execution of their three allies. Their leader clenched his jaw and furrowed his eyebrows in anger, shouting for his men to charge.

Man after man fell under Skjor's blade as he moved like a deadly whirlwind. Decades of training made Skjor's body his true weapon and his blade simply followed behind to execute the men his body had already defeated. There were no wasted movements as he time and time again used his opponents' movement against them and countered to kill. Skjor had long ago mastered his defensive counter technique, and stepping within his reach was nothing less than a death sentence as every incoming attack was instantly used against the attacker.

The leader watched in fright as he saw Skjor's ¨Dance of death¨ ravage his men, snow turning red as he went, until there were no more than five men left standing around him. A slow sense of fear creeped up in the leader's eyes as he watched.

A deep breath left Skjor's lungs as he stared down the remaining five with sharp yet calm eyes. The warm blood covering his sword hand felt sticky as he clenched his sword for a better grip. The men looked nervous, almost afraid, as they circled him for an opening to attack. One of the men charged with a roar, more out of panic than intention. It was a foolish move as he quickly found himself on his knees by Skjor's counter, only to experience the last sensation of warm steel digging into his shoulder to reach his heart.

The remaining four charged at once as Skjor pulled his sword from the corpse. Skjor's body twitched as he twirled under the incoming attacks and again turned to counter, sending one of the men flying. Skjor stopped and grimaced in surprise at the sharp pain that had chosen to make itself known and screamed within his left knee, like a shard of glass twisting beneath his kneecap, scraping against bone.

Skjor cursed the timing of his old injury, as he dropped to one knee wearing pain on his face. Of course it had decided to fail him during the worst of times. He barely had the time to look up before blackening pain smashed over his head, followed by the men yelling and violently clobbering his prone body with vengeance for their fallen friends. Protecting his now bleeding head, Skjor swept his arm under one of the men's legs and knocked him to the ground. Rolling onto his back Skjor kicked upwards. Grunting in pain, one of the men fell to his knees, clenching the groin Skjor's heel had crushed barely a second ago. Seeing an opening, Skjor rolled away from the still standing men and heaved himself up on his feet, holding his left leg off the ground as he could no longer put weight on it.

For a moment, Skjor managed to fend off the remaining men. But only able to stand on one leg, it didn't take long until his situation turned desperately dire. When the four remaining men finally managed to sync their attacks and fight in unison, it didn't take long until Skjor once again fell to the snowy ground. The men again beat him senseless as he lay on the ground. Because heavy armor protected his body, they all aimed for his head. Skjor did his best to search for an opening as he protected his head with his arms, burning from their beating, but to no avail. An unguarded hit and a crack rang in his ears as his vision began fading to black, his senses dulled by forced unconsciousness.

The last thoughts his mind managed to summon, before he lost consciousness, had been of worry for his beloved Aela.


	23. Warrior imprisoned

My eyes widened in surprise as I gazed down into the bag of provisions Tilma had prepared moments before we left. She proudly carried the nickname ¨Hag¨ for her usual demeanor, yet every now and then she'd remind us all of the reason she also carried her second nickname, ¨The Mother of Jorrvaskr,¨ for the content of her bag held nothing but a mother's care. And as I, with enthusiasm, pulled out the two bottles of Black-Briar Reserve, I couldn't help but to feel warmly charmed.

As a regular visitor to Riften, getting my hands on Black-Briar mead was never a problem. But there was more than one reason I never could get my hands on their Reserve. It was rare. Sold and exported only to the jarls and nobles of Skyrim.

Renowned as our Harbinger was, he still didn't make Maven's cut as a possible buyer of her more jeweled wares. It wasn't his reputation that failed him, it was a far more primitive reason than that.

The Companions were poor.

We mostly hunted our own food and not to mention how we with damn near _daring _desperation accepted every Septim-offering contract we got. Even so, most of our earnings went to travel and lodging, as well as Eorlund's expenses for his Skyforge steel. Even with our Companion discount, it was near heavenly high. Luxury items were simply something we couldn't afford, which Vilkas far too many times reminded me of.

The Reserve was my favorite beverage so far. I only had the luxury of opening a bottle once before, offered as payment by the Priestess of Arkay in Riften, for bringing her ceremonial dagger to her father's final resting place in Whiterun. It had been more of a favor than a contract, accepted by chance as we happened to discuss the subject one stormy evening in the Bee and Barb.

The dark blue, almost black, liquid had seemed off-putting at first as I filled my goblet to the brim, but when its deep scent reached my nostrils it had almost entranced me with curiosity for its complex aromas. The smooth honey-sweetened touch against my tongue had quickly darkened with the deep notes only blackberries could provide. As I consumed the dark liquid, a distinct aftertaste, hinting of snowberries and a mixture of spices, warmed its way down my throat to find its rest in the depths of my belly. Its warm profoundness lingered for minutes to come, truly a drink only appreciated to its fullest when savored.

I had no idea how Tilma had managed to get her hands on a bottle, much less two, but I knew it couldn't have been easy. Living in Whiterun, where Honeybrew mead was the very definition of loyalty, it was already a challenge to get one's hands on Black-Briar Mead, not to mention their Reserve. Whatever strings Tilma had pulled, she had pulled hard.

Greed and gluttony struck me as I discreetly placed the two bottles behind my boot as to not let Aela see. Luckily she was clearly too busy to take notice as she worked something in her old wooden mortar, as she sat on an old fallen tree.

"What's that you're doing?" I asked as I emptied the rest of Tilma's bag before me: dried meat, bread and cheese.

"Paint…" Aela barely took her eyes off the mortar as she answered.

"Paint?" Using my dagger, I sliced the cheese and bread to make sandwiches. "For what?"

"Just a tradition my father taught me." Aela gave me a look as she spoke. "Before we went hunting he always made some paint. For camouflage he said, but it always felt like more of a tradition... or ritual even."

"You've never spoken of your father before." I handed Aela a sandwich before preparing another for myself.

"Not much to say." Aela took a bite before continuing, "I stayed with my father in the woods until I was old enough for my Trial. We hunted everything there was to hunt… Good training."

"Your Trial? You mean…"

"Yes," Aela interrupted, "I've been moonborn since the day I first entered Jorrvaskr."

I hadn't known that, I thought as I chewed on dried meat. Vilkas and Farkas had both been turned at a young age, but Aela must have been even younger than them.

"Vilkas mentioned your mother was a Companion as well," I returned my eyes on her as I spoke. "She's the one who turned you?"

"My mother was a Companion. And her mother. And all the women in my family back to Hrotti Blackblade." Aela took a short pause before continuing. "But no… Ma didn't live long enough to see me join, but I fight to honor her and all my Shield-Sisters through time." With that said she returned to her mortar and worked her pestle with more intensity than before.

She didn't seem upset by the subject our conversation had taken, but perhaps a bit evasive to continue on the details. Typical of Aela, whenever she didn't want to speak on something, she would simply stop. But then again most Companions were like that: Speaking with actions rather than words.

A moment of silence passed as I continued to eat, the moment almost bordering on awkwardness. Almost beginning to feel uncomfortable I broke the silence. "I used to hunt with my father too before I joined, and my brother."

"Heard about your brother," Aela instantly said, turning towards me, as if there never had been a silence to begin with. "Perhaps we're not so different, you and I… Hand me one of those bottles, will you?"

With a faint look of ignorance, I stared at her outstretched hand. Crap… She _had_ noticed. Reluctantly I handed her one of the bottles of Black-Briar Reserve and opened the second one for myself. I knew it would, after all, be impolite not to share. Yet I had hoped to save them both for later and, more importantly, for myself.

The aroma and taste was even more intense than I remembered. I didn't have enhanced senses the last time I drank it, which clearly showed as the sweet yet spicy dark liquid proudly gloated on my enhanced sense of taste. Feelings of fulfillment and joy spread throughout my body, only to abruptly turn to horror as I saw Aela nonchalantly pour the content of her bottle into her mortar mixture.

"That'll do," Aela said as she mashed the mixture with her pestle into a dark, muddy mush.

She downed the rest of her bottle as I stared in horror with wide eyes at how casually she treated such a treasure of glorified liquid. She didn't savor the drink in any way. I should never have taken the bottles out of the bag…

Casually, she tossed the bottle aside. The rest of its content flowing into the snow covered ground as the bottle softly rolled to a halt, leaving a trail of dark blue in its path. She dipped three of her fingers in the mixture and drew them diagonally across her face, leaving behind three stripes of dark umbra blue. She gave me an odd look as I stared at her, bottle against my lips as if I had been dumbstruck, before reaching the mortar towards me.

"This might cover up that dumb look of yours…"

* * *

A pounding headache tortured Skjor as he became aware of the cold, wet stone floor beneath him. Unsteady hands slowly pushed against the cold floor as he, in dazed befuddlement, rose to his feet. The ¨shard of glass¨ inside his knee forced him to fall to his side. Luckily, a wall hindered his descent and he remained standing, leaning against the cold stone wall. Even before his senses fully returned to him, Skjor realized his armor had been stripped along with his weapons and bag. The wolf fursuit he wore did little against the cold now that it was soaked all the way through by the more than damp floor he had awakened on.

Skjor slowly slid his back down the wall to the floor. Ears still ringing as he breathed with an open mouth, trying to focus his blurred vision on his surroundings. The Silver Hands had clearly continued beating and kicking him after he lost consciousness earlier, for his entire body ached as if he had been trampled by a horse. Skjor wouldn't be surprised if more than a few of his bones were broken.

Skjor slowly rubbed his eyes and his knee, aching worse than ever before. Had his left eye not already been blind, the swelling from his beating surely would have made it so. His breathing was slow and deep as he tried to regain his focus. A bloody palm appeared before his vision as he stopped rubbing his eyes, clearly his head was still bleeding.

"Haven't healed yet…" Skjor mumbled to himself. "Can't have been more than a couple of hours."

A deep inhale as he leaned his head back against the cold wall, feeling drips of water run down his neck as he began looking around.

The room smelled of mold, moss, old wood and water, dripping down the walls, and the horrid smelling liquid beneath him a mixture of water, feces, and piss. It was clearly a cell. Barely large enough for two people. Ceiling, walls and floor all made of stone. Barred opening to his left, facing another stone wall. Must be the basement of their fort.

Tilting his head, Skjor tried to listen for any sounds, but his headache still rang loud with a high pitch of pain in his ears. If there were any hints of sounds around him, they easily evaded his dulled hearing. Again Skjor tried to rise. If his hearing decided to fail him, he'd have to use his eyes. Slowly he worked his way up, hands climbing against the wall, and once up, he continued to limp towards the iron bars.

Cold rusted iron met the skin of his palms as he gripped the bars. They were too close to one another for him to squeeze his head through, yet he could make out parts of the hallway to both sides.

The hallway was dark, except for a few lit candles placed here and there atop wooden shelves mounted along the hallway walls. They seemed to have been burning for a while as most of them had long molten flows of red wax dripping down their sides.

A slight scent of cooking drifted down the hallway... Must be a kitchen nearby. That meant people. Or at least one.

Skjor reached his hand between the bars. The lock was, like the bars, old and rusty yet strong enough that he wouldn't be able to break it. Perhaps if he had still had his sword. Or even his dagger. But with nothing but his hands the lock would stay shut no matter his efforts to twist and bend it.

"Hey! Stop that!"

Skjor let go of the lock and turned his head towards the direction of the voice.

A man came walking down the corridor to his left, the same way the smell of a kitchen came from. Not a man, a boy. He looked young. The black-haired boy wore simple clothing, leather and fur, rather than armor. He didn't look like a warrior. Perhaps he was their cook, or on a break and hadn't donned his armor. He wasn't one of the men that had attacked him earlier.

"Awake huh," the boy said as he stopped in front of Skjor.

With a stern look, Skjor eyed the boy on the other side of the bars. He looked about Ria's age. Was he one of the newer recruits the Silver Hand had been so busy gathering? Or had he perhaps grown up with the Silver Hand, like Vilkas and Farkas with the Companions. No. Had he grown up with them he'd be better built. Except for the look in his eyes, this boy didn't seem like a warrior at all.

"First time I get to see a wolf who's… well, not a wolf," the boy started as he in return studied Skjor with his eyes.

"What do you mean?" Skjor asked between pain clenched teeth. Not that he didn't know what the boy meant, but starting a dialogue might cause the boy to give away some information. Being behind bars, information gathering was one of the few useful things Skjor could do.

"All the others they bring in are beasts. Not human, like you. In form, I mean"

"Since when did The Silver Hand stop killing werewolves on sight?"

"Since that new chief showed up… Says she wants them alive. Made things a lot harder for us, but you wolves are quick to charge into traps." A slight smile played on his lips as he spoke. "Who did you think gave you the information for our camp? But to think you'd be dumb enough to come alone! We expected at least two of you. With your Shield Sibling tradition and whatnot. But here you are… all alone."

A loose tongue bragger, huh? Good. Clearly they weren't aware of Aela and the New-Blood yet. At least that was a relief. That meant the battle wasn't yet lost. But from behind bars there was little Skjor could do to aid them. Still, there was one fact Skjor couldn't figure out, _why _they wanted him alive?

"You should have gone in for the kill when you had me surrounded. Might have saved you some men. Why didn't you?" Skjor poked.

A darkness spread over the boy's face at Skjor's comment. "Like I said. Krev wants you alive."

"Why?"

"I don't know." Shrugging his shoulders the boy's expression turned from darkened anger to faltering comprehension as his eyes seemed to search the air for an answer. "I'm not allowed in that part of her dungeon. But not for any good reason I think. They're kind of secretive of what goes on over there. I've only heard some rumors but… She's not normal."

The boy spoke more than Skjor had hoped for. The naivety of youth. How desperately they wanted to be heard, most of all the ones who rarely got to speak. Still, like most of the naive, the boy seemed to know little of what was truly going around here. He couldn't be one of importance. Skjor adjusted his lean against the bars before continuing their conversation, as his knee demanded movement.

"What do you mean?"

"I…" The boy's expression turned almost uncomfortable before he continued. "I don't know. It's just… The old leader wasn't as scary. And he was more, honorbound? I guess. But Krev… I think she just likes to see you suffer. Werewolves, I mean."

"Why do you think that?"

"I don't know…" The boy squirmed uncomfortably for a moment before leaning in closer. Lowering his voice, he whispered, "But they call her ¨The Skinner¨."


	24. Unleashed

"Something's wrong." Aela kneeled down to feel the snow-covered ashes as we approached the campfire. "This is where we're supposed to meet up with Skjor."

A fresh layer of snow covered the surrounding area as I looked around, searching for any traces or hints of Skjor, only to find none. Aela rose from the campfire and searched the air with her nose, almost like a dog.

"You smell that?" She asked.

I glance at her from the corner of my eyes. Cautiously, I mimicked her behavior and smelt the air. I knew my sense of smell had been enhanced, along with my other senses, but smelling the air like an animal, I couldn't help but feel silly to the point of ridiculous. But I _did _smell it. It was faint, but the cold air entering my nostrils definitely carried the scent of blood.

Following the scent, I slowly walked around the open area, like a dog tracking prey. It was faint, yet there. Had I not been sniffing the air like an animal I would easily have missed it, enhanced senses or not. Whereas the scent was strongest, I stopped in my tracks. With my foot, I uncovered the snow beneath me, the scent instantly intensified as red blood and yellow plasma showed itself from beneath. Staring at the blood, I got an unsettled feeling that more of it was hiding beneath the snow around us. I turned towards Aela. The concern in my eyes made her aware of my discovery.

"That's not Skjor's blood," she said reassuringly. "By the scent, I don't know whose it is. Surely a Silver Hand."

"You can tell?" I asked surprised.

"You can't?"

Looking down at the dark-colored snow, I gave it a few whiffs. Smells like blood to me. No different than any other. Was Aela really suggesting she could differentiate whose blood it was by smell alone? And from all the way over there?

"No."

A brief look before she spoke. "That's what I meant by ¨your strength is your own¨. Enhanced senses might give you an edge. But if you don't train them like any other skill, you might as well be without them."

I realized it made sense as I contemplated the meaning behind her words. It wasn't as if my turning had instantly made me stronger… well, it partially did. But my training had still proven effective in my improvement, reflexes and muscle mass increased by training more so than from my turning alone. And I still noted from time to time how my hearing and eyesight improved over time as I focused on using them. Even now I still have much to learn, no matter how much stronger I felt from before.

"It's the lack of bodies that worry me…" Aela interrupted my thoughts. "If Skjor defeated them, he wouldn't have disposed of the bodies. And he would still be waiting for us, or at least left a hint to another location. No… something went wrong."

"You think they got him?"

"The Silver Hand kill us on sight…" Aela rarely showed emotions of a sentimental nature, yet if I didn't know better I'd say she looked worried as she stood with her right hand on her shoulder and eyes searching the ground: thoughtful, yet distant. "But I don't smell Skjor's blood… He couldn't have…"

"We could see where they took the bodies," I offered, as her thoughts seemed to have drifted off into her mind. "Only lead we got."

Aela gave me a look and inhaled deeply through her mouth, as if to speak, only to exhale as she took her hand off her shoulder and reached for the bow on her back. "Let's."

* * *

"What did I say about speaking to the prisoner?!" A harsh voice interrupted their discussion.

Startled by the voice, the boy jerked away from the bars and turned towards the incoming man, hands to his sides and straight back. Not unlike a nervous recruit: given the order of ¨attention.¨

"I… I was only curious…"

"You don't speak with the prisoner!"

Unaffected by their interruption, Skjor turned his head to take a look at the approaching man, not surprised as to who it was as Skjor had already recognized the voice of the group leader from his ambush.

Skjor's eye was instantly faced with hate as the man appeared before his cell, full steel armor and all. The pleasing grin he had worn when they surrounded Skjor earlier had long since turned to a flat line of serious hate towards the man who single-handedly and seemingly effortlessly had defeated, no, **executed **most of his men before his very eyes.

"How's your head?" The leader asked. He clearly didn't expect an answer as the question was meant to remind Skjor of the pounding headache that would be the result of the concussion his men had given him.

"How are your men?"

The leader clenched his jaw and sharpened his eyes towards Skjor. The returning insult did little but deepen his personal hatred. The leader slowly leaned closer to the bars, his eyes filled with hate as they cut at Skjor who returned the glare with indifference. "It'll all be worth it once Krev gets her hands on you."

"Can't wait to meet her."

"Oh, forgive me. Allow me to specify," the leader said with sarcasm in his voice. "It's not _you _she wants to meet. It's your _wolf…_"

¨Your wolf.¨ The ¨Skinner.¨ The puzzle-pieces began to connect as Skjor placed them in his mind. That was the reason for her nickname, was it not? It wasn't Skjor she wanted, it was his _pelt_.

Werewolves were rare, seldom appearing beyond once a full moon, so their pelts were highly valued and even said to hold magical properties. Some even believed wearing them as clothing brought forth Hircine's favor on the wearer, for slaying one of his proudest creations. Not to mention the dangers of hunting werewolves. For who but the Silver Hand would willingly hunt such fierce predators when the very rumors of one so often birthed terror in people's hearts.

Skjor felt a slight irritation with himself for not connecting the dots earlier, it all made sense, but he quickly blamed his lack of focus on his pounding head. It explained why they needed him alive. It also explained why they had locked him up, rather than taking him to Krev the moment they caught him.

They were waiting for Secunda to turn full. They _wanted _him to turn.

That meant Skjor had time, for Secunda wouldn't be full for at least two weeks. A thought instantly disrupted, as Skjor was reminded of Aela and the new-blood. They were still out there, surely coming to his rescue. Knowing Aela as well as he did, Skjor knew she would attack the Silver Hand even if she thought him dead. _Especially _if she thought him dead. If Skjor could attack from the inside it would greatly improve the chances for Aela and the new-blood.

But Sjor didn't need to be told to recognize there was little he could do from behind bars. Barely able to stand, for his knee and dizziness alike, there was little he could do even if he did get out. But he needed to get out. For there was but one advantage Skjor still had, one the Silver Hand was clearly unaware of. For a wolf that could turn by will alone was rare. Even amongst wolves. To Skjor's knowledge there was no more than a handful with the ability in all of Skyrim, and all of them, Companions.

And Skjor? Skjor could turn by will… All he had to do was let go of the ¨leash¨ he so long ago had tightened around his wolf's neck. The leash he only had to release to command his wolf to attack. The transformation would greatly accelerate his already enhanced healing, ridding him of his injuries and the concussion that dulled his senses. His wolf might not even suffer his injured knee. Still, transforming inside the cell would be of no use. And it would also take far too many seconds for the transformation to complete without the leader killing him first. He needed an opening. But first, he needed to get out of his cell.

"Get back to the kitchen, boy!" The leader said as he insultingly slapped the boy over his head. "You were ordered to bring him some food."

Skjor gave the man a look. The Silver Hand clearly didn't share the type of bond the Companions practiced. Silver Hand or not Skjor almost felt sorry for the boy, although not something he would openly admit.

"You're going to feed me?"

The leader sharpened his eyes into Skjor's, as if insulted by his question, as the boy scurried off down the corridor.

"Oh believe me… If it was up to me? You'd starve." His voice emitting loathing hatred as he spoke. "But I know a starving wolf is more dangerous than a full one. And I don't go against Krev's orders. I've seen what happens to those who do."

"It's a long time until the full moon. They'll come for me you know." Skjor wouldn't give out information aiding the Silver Hand. But he needed time, and as long as the possibility for conversation was on the table, he'd use it in his favor. He knew his chances were infinitely better with someone on the other side of the bars than none.

"Oh we know. In fact, we're counting on it!"

His jaw hardened as Skjor's suspicions were confirmed by that statement. The boy might believe Skjor came alone, but the leader knew better. Now Skjor knew he needed to act. To get out of the cell and buy time. Aela and the new-blood were walking into a trap.

"You won't stop until we're all dead?"

"Damn right."

"I'll talk."

"What?" Suspicion surfaced in his eyes.

"Let me talk to Krev."

The leader laughed as he turned down the corridor. An ominous laugh of sarcasm, as if he had heard the best joke of his life... or the worst.

"I told you, Krev doesn't give a crap about you! It's your wolf she wants!"

"There's a hidden passage," Skjor said as the leader disappeared from his imprisoned sight. The sound of the leader's footsteps stopped, followed by silence. When he didn't answer Skjor decided to continue. "Leads right into Jorrvaskr ground. Beneath the Skyforge. You'll be in and out before the city guards even know you've entered the city."

Still, there was no sound. Skjor clenched his hands around the cold bars, patiently awaiting a reaction. Skjor's patience was rewarded as the sound of footsteps once again begun to sound. This time towards his cell, rather than away from it.

"Why?" The leader asked as he came back into view. His eyes as suspicious as ever.

"Promise to spare the red-haired woman and I'll talk."

A moment of suspense as the leader studied Skjor with his suspicious eyes, crossing his arms. "Love, is it? Didn't think you creatures were capable of that… Talk."

"I'll only talk to Krev."

"You'll talk to me."

"I don't trust you to give promises on her behalf."

"And why should I trust _you_?" Disgust rose in his voice at the last word.

Skjor leaned away from the bars and gestured towards his leg, one hand still holding a bar.

"Look at me… My vision's still blurred and I can barely stand as I am. What threat could I possibly be?"

The leader breathed heavily in distrust as he again studied the wounded Skjor. "A secret entrance, huh?"

"That's right…"

The leader let out a sigh as he reluctantly reached for the key-chain by his belt. "You better not try anything funny."

Keeping eye contact, Skjor stepped back, taking support from the wall as he moved away from the bars. The leader had one hand on his sword hilt as he placed the key in the lock and worked it with a rustic 'click' before opening the cell door.

"Get out," the leader said sternly, gesturing with a nod for Skjor to move.

Skjor didn't hesitate as the door was open. Using the wall next to him as support, Skjor went towards the cell door, trying his best not to limp any more than his stubborn pride would allow. The leader watched carefully as Skjor entered the corridor and came to a stop.

"Right this way," he said as he gestured down the corridor, the opposite way he had sent the boy.

Skjor gave him a look as he stepped forward, forced to pass the man to continue. Without support, walking became increasingly harder for him as he limped by the man.

Skjor had barely passed the leader before he delivered a surprise punch to Skjor's stomach. The air left Skjor's lungs as he fell to his knees. He was barely able to regain his breath before a kick to his side sent him to the stone floor, followed up by yet another kick to his stomach. Skjor grunted between his coughs, clenching his stomach in defense.

"That's for my men!" The leader shouted as he stood over the pained Skjor, hostile and enraged. "Get up!"

Skjor clenched his teeth in withheld anger, as he slowly managed to pull himself up to his knees. Breathing heavily, he composed himself next to the leader. Skjor glanced at the dagger on the leaders' belt, as he knelt beside him. It was within his reach. But no. Skjor knew the leader would be faster if he did decide to go for the dagger. He'd deliver a knee to his face the moment Skjor would move. Skjor needed an opening before he could make a move. He needed to find some way to lower the leader's guard.

"I said, "Get up!""

"I… need help to stand," Skjor spoke reluctantly between clenched teeth as he gave the leader a stern look. For Skjor, there was more than a hint of humiliation in his request.

Skjor had always been far too prideful to ever request help from others, especially for something as simple as standing on his own two legs. But at the same time, Skjor had seen far too many opponents fall before him because of their stubborn pride not to recognize it as a possible weakness in himself. And because of that, Skjor would easily throw his pride aside if it meant his own survival.

The leader thought even less of Skjor than he had before, as he spat toward the kneeling warrior in both anger and insult. But he wouldn't allow the current show of weakness to make him forget how Skjor had easily killed off his men. Yet, with a now growing grin, he clearly enjoyed the situation and had a strong feeling of superiority at their now reversed powerplay.

"And you call yourself a warrior. Disgusting," he said as he reached down for Skjor's arm and pulled him from the floor. The leader clearly disgusted having to help such a now weak-looking creature. His emotions clearly showed on his face as he steadied Skjor's arm over his neck and placed his other hand around Skjor's back to support him.

Skjor's mask-of-seriousness had returned as he balanced himself against the leader, clenching his hurting abdomen with his left arm.

"Let's go then," the leader said as he tugged at Skjor to move, his head facing forward down the corridor.

The leader seemed to avoid eye contact altogether as they began stumbling forward. Perhaps the close proximity of the two brought him a sense of discomfort, or perhaps he had his own reasons not wanting to face Skjor. Either way, his eyes were facing forward.

"Can't wait for..."

His sentence was interrupted by a sudden gurgle as his dagger plunged upwards through his jaw and into his head. Seeing an opening, Skjor had, in a fluid motion, reached for the leader's dagger with his left hand and turned it against its owner. The leader had never even seen it coming before it so abruptly took his life.

His body instantly turned limp as his brain shut down and collapsed to the floor like a sack of potatoes. With a grunt, Skjor followed behind as his support left him, landing on top of the leader. Skjor's knee once again screamed in revolt at the brief moment he had tried to keep himself upright.

Skjor quickly pulled himself up to his knees, regaining his breath as he kneeled beside the body. The dagger was still deeply embedded in his skull, leaving no room for blood to spill. Finally, Skjor was alone and free of his cell. Skjor clumsily reached for the wall and worked himself up to a stand. Now all that was left for him to do was-

_Clang_. The sound echoed against the walls as the metal plate fell to the floor, spilling food as it went.

Skjor briefly closed his eyes in increasing annoyance, cursing the timing of it all as his moment of victory turned sour, before he opened them again and turned his head towards the source. It was the boy.

The boy was barely breathing as his wide eyes locked on the dead leader by the floor. By his expression alone, one could believe it was his first time seeing a dead body. His mouth was slightly open as he turned his eyes on Skjor, still leaning heavily against the wall.

He seemed frightened as he met Skjor's eye, like a young deer frozen in fright before a wolf. But Skjor had no way of knowing how he would react. Boy or not, Skjor was in no position to manage a real fight. Right now, even the boy was a bigger threat than Skjor could handle. Yet Skjor knew there was no way he could avoid a confrontation now. The brief moment of time he had bought had just as quickly slipped away and left him, only managing to take him out of his cell. But that was more than enough as Skjor decided to act, rather than let the boy move first.

A grin grew on Skjor's face as he finally let go of his mental leash. It was now or never. And as quickly as Skjor's thoughts had decided, he felt his wolf awaken within him. Clawing for its finally released control, in the back of Skjor's mind. Only growing stronger. Skjor was long since used to the pain that followed. In fact, a part deep within him had come to enjoy it. Welcome it. As his muscles began to twitch, his shoulder dislocated violently with a pop and he lost grip on the wall, once again falling to his knees.

The boy twitched at Skjor's sudden movement, not knowing what to do, but when Skjor lifted his head and glared towards him with that wolfish grin, he froze again. That one yellow-burning eye seemed to burn right through him as primal fear rose within his chest. That eye did not belong to a human.

"Run, boy," Skjor growled with a pained yet bone-chilling voice. His eye burned with intent as both his shoulders began twisting in an inhuman way, followed with horrid sounds of bones bending and skin tearing. With a sudden loud crack, Skjor's spine bent in an obviously painful way. That unfroze the boy, who didn't need to be told twice as control over his legs seemed to return to him.

Nothing but fear guided the boy as he turned for escape in a panic. The horrid sounds echoed behind him as he raced towards the stairs, hands grabbing air as if it would somehow aid his escape. The grunts of pain behind him turned to bestial growls as he climbed the stairs in desperation and panic, nearly tripping on every step. Reason had left him and fear ruled over his movement. The kitchen was so close. But even then he would have a long way to the outside. Too afraid to even scream, he toppled over the top stairs as the deep growls behind him rose into a graveled howl, a roar of rage, as the wolf behind him had at last rid himself of his torturous leash.

It was finally free.


	25. Werewolf

Aela suddenly lifted her hand, followed by a palm-moving-down gesture, indicating I should stop and get down.

I knew she was well above a good tracker, but because of the fresh snow covering their tracks, I never thought she'd find something this quickly. I most certainly hadn't, even though I grew up hunting. I suppose she had a keener eye for it than I. And an even keener nose.

I reached for my great axe as I knelt down behind her, slowly creeping to her side as she carefully tilted her head left and right. Focusing her hearing.

"Someone's chopping wood," she said as I took a knee next to her. I noticed the sound earlier, but for some reason hadn't given it much thought, at least not enough to connect it to wood chopping. But now that I listened closer, the sound was far too regular to be anything but. "You smell that?"

_Again with the smelling?_

Axe in hand I rested its handle on my knee as I again focused on sniffing the air. Slow and deep breaths through my nose as I searched for whatever whiff of scent she hinted at.

Cold air, the forest, wood, snow… green? And something else.

It didn't feel as ridiculous as last time, especially not… I found it. Again, a faint scent, not something I would have noticed had I not been searching for it.

Smoke from a campfire.

I really should learn to use my enhanced sense of smell and hearing more, more so than my eyes, for they seemed to notice things far better. "I do… Upwind," I said as I turned my head towards Aela. Who seemed to assess me while she waited for me to notice, rather than to simply _wait_ for me to notice.

"Lead the way," she said as she nodded in the direction of the sound, and smell. "And try to keep low."

"I don't think sneaking in heavy armor is…"

"We're not _sneaking_," she interrupted. Visually insulted by the word she frowned. "We're _hunting._"

Well, of course not. Companions didn't _sneak_. For there was no honor in it. ¨Leave whispers and sneaking to the gutter rats who can't fight for themselves¨ was how Kodlak had put it. With the simple change of a word, Aela had rid our actions of any and all dishonesty. For in the hunt, there was honor.

The scent of smoke grew stronger as we worked our way through the snow-covered fauna, fresh snow beneath muffled the sounds of our feet as we walked. Every now and then Aela would click her tongue to let me know to stop, for whatever reassuring reason she had. She'd tilt her head and smell the air for a second, only to give me a nod to continue forward again.

I found it annoying. Partially because, well, I wanted to move forward. But more so because it made me realize how much more attuned she was. After my turning, I had felt amazing. Everything enhanced. Faster, stronger, quicker. Everything I could imagine had improved. The sudden rush of power made me feel so much more than ever before. Yet now, next to Aela, I came to realize how little it all meant. How naive I had been, fooling myself into believing I was truly strong. My senses noticed things no ordinary man's would, yet nothing before her's did.

_Your strength is your own. If you don't train them like any other skill, you might as well be without them._

I had joined the Companions over four years ago. Been a member of the Circle for slightly over half a year. I knew training our skills and proficiency in battle was 90% of what we did. But somehow, it seemed I had forgotten that fact the moment I believed myself to be stronger than I thought imaginable. After turning.

I realized now. I was naive…

I had yet to touch the surface. _That's why Skjor still called me ¨Whelp,¨ was it not?_

"There," I said gesturing forward as the camp came into view. Except it wasn't a camp, more like a full-blown base. Training areas, makeshift kitchen, stables and more. Not to mention the old stone fort standing in the center, surrounded by a wide stone wall. It was more than we had expected. Maybe even more than the two of us could handle.

The wolf armor, with its dull-gray plating, offered little in the way of camouflage. Luckily, the surrounding foliage and woods offered enough for both of us to remain unseen as we crawled closer.

"I don't see Skjor," Aela whispered as she lay flat on her stomach next to me, leaning on her elbows.

Looking over the area wasn't reassuring. There were at least twenty, or more, Silver Hands around the place. Archers on the walls, workers... some chatting, others patrolling.

As I tried to come up with a strategy, any kind of strategy really, and suppress the growing feeling of hopelessness that had begun to cling to my stomach, I caught myself fiddling with my ring, slowly spinning it around on my finger. A habit I recently found myself doing whenever I got worried. Guess it reminded me of Ysolda. And that there was more than myself to worry about now.

_We can take over your parents' farm! You can work the farm and I'll get the Khajiits to travel through Rorikstead, so I can open up shop there. We can live a slow and normal life._

Between the two of us, Ysolda had always been more the worrying type. When she wasn't lost in her fanatic trading ambitions, at least. Most of the time she seemed fine with me being a Companion, working in a profession of death and all. And I knew she trusted me most of the time, but still, she'd worry for me. What wife wouldn't? Something she lately had taken to remind me of through arguments, not much to my liking.

_That's marriage for you,_ I thought with a smile as I lowered my hand and continued to watch over the camp.

"What's that? In the far end," I asked as I gestured toward a group of Silver Hands. I stared at the movements one of them made, watching as he tossed a shovelful of dirt over his shoulder. And he wasn't the only one. All three of them were up to their waists in the ground, tossing dirt. My heart took a beat for the worst as I realized the truth. They were digging graves. "You don't think…"

"The Silver Hand wouldn't give Skjor a grave," Aela said without giving it an extra thought. "It's most likely for the men _he _killed. No. If they have Skjor, they have him inside."

Her words brought me _some _comfort. But that didn't save us from the real problem here. "And how are we to get inside?"

"There's too many of them to risk a head-on attack," she said. More an observation than an answer.

A head-on attack was precisely what Farkas would've done. ¨Let's introduce ourselves,¨ he had said that one time. We had been outnumbered that time, too. But then again, that time our opponents had been nothing more than drunk and simple bandits, raiding caravans for mead more so than coin. A head-on attack was the Companion-way. But this was different.

"What are you suggesting?"

Aela chewed on the inside of her lower lip as she took her time before giving an answer. "I don't know…" Not much of an answer. "There's too many archers. Too many Silver Hands… This is not at all what the information Skjor got said. It was supposed to be a larger camp, perhaps a dozen men. But this is a _fort_… As many men as there seem to be, I bet there's plenty more of them inside. I have a bad feeling, but this is…" Aela slightly shook her head. "This is more than we can handle."

After a short pause, I asked, "You think it's a trap?"

"I do. It would explain a lot. I told Skjor he got that information way too easy, but stubborn as he is he just saw a chance to take the fight to them."

"But even if it is a trap, we can't leave."

"I know."

"And if they do have Skjor…"

"I know!"

I twitched at Aela's sudden loud outburst, a shared feeling as Aela herself grimaced at her volume. This whole situation with Skjor had clearly affected her more than she would let on. The pressure of worry, simmering within her, had seemed to finally boil over. Washing away her usual ¨I'm in control¨ demeanor.

Hoping she hadn't given away our position, I quickly scanned the base to see if anyone had heard her. Thankfully, it didn't look like it as the Silver Hands continued their affairs undisturbed.

Aela's lips were pressed together in a thin line before she continued. "I'm not saying we should leave. We can't. It's just… I have to think about this." Aela retreated a pace or two to get some room to think.

I had never seen her this worried before. I could feel it creeping within me, as though she'd infected me with it, as I set my eyes on the camp. Worry had an uncomfortable way of showing one reality. Were we in denial? Did we simply push it off as _they got Skjor,_ when the reality could be much worse. What if he was…

No. Aela said she couldn't smell his blood. And I know how strong Skjor is. Sparing, I never stood a chance. He was far too fast for me. He wouldn't lose to some Silver Hands. But where was he then? We know there had been a fight at the meeting spot. So where was he? And now they're digging graves. Could he really be…

Again, I caught myself spinning my ring. Lost in thought as I stared at the golden ring around my finger, my thumb slowly spinning it around. How would Ysolda feel if it was me? And what about Aela?

I know they tried to keep it a secret, and they did so well, but the rumors were there. Njada had been the first one to tell me. I knew that Skjor and Aela had feelings for one another. She must be feeling a lot worse than I.

A noise from the base brought me back to reality as I lifted my eyes, the sound of a heavy door opening violently. Someone came running out of the fort, almost tripping over the threshold as he exited the building. Unlike the other Silver Hands, he didn't look older than me. In fact, he looked slightly younger. Maybe Ria's age.

"Aela," I said without taking my eyes off the man. "Something's going on." It didn't take long for her to crawl back beside me to watch.

He seemed panicked as he ran into the courtyard, frantically turning to look behind him every now and then. As if he was being chased. Clearly out of breath, he waved his arms for attention, yet the others didn't seem to notice him. When he reached the center of the courtyard he stopped, hands on his knees, as he regained his breath and drew air.

"WEREWOOLF!"

I threw a look at Aela, who as quickly turned her head to me. She wore a hard expression on her face.

"That must be Skjor," she exclaimed, reaching for her bow as she hastily pulled herself up to a knee.

Turmoil had taken over the base as shouts and commands could be heard. Silver Hands were running around and all their attention was now aimed at the fort. One of them, who seemed to be in charge, strictly waved his hands around at the others. Giving out orders I assumed. He didn't take long to do so before he moved for the fort, followed by most of the Silver Hands, including the young-looking man who had come running out, and before we knew it the earlier filled courtyard had turned almost empty.

"There are five archers. Two men by the door…" I didn't know if Aela was thinking out loud or telling me what I could clearly see for myself. But from the look in her eyes, I could tell where she was going with it. "It's now or never. Go for the men by the door. Don't worry about the archers, I'll handle them."

Aela didn't need to tell me twice. I pulled myself up and reached for my axe. The remaining men's attention was still directed at the fort, and if we attacked now we'd get inside the camp before anyone would even notice.

"I got your back," Aela said. I answered her with a nod as we both began to sprint.

He was alive. Well, of course, he was alive. To think that for a second I had doubted him.

Aela took the lead, heading toward the stone wall surrounding the courtyard to get to a high point, while I continued forward, toward the opening into the courtyard. She was clearly faster than me. But unlike me, she wasn't weighed down by a full set of heavy armor.

Her armor consisted mostly of hard leather. Only plated with, dull gray, skyforge steel around her torso, waist, and the outside of her upper thighs. It wasn't suited for close and heavy combat. It was made for an archer. Less plating made her lighter overall, no plating on her legs, other than the sides of her thighs, made her quick on her feet. No plating on her arms made it easier and faster to work her bow. And fighting from a distance, the only real threats she'd face were other archers and archers always aimed for the easiest target to hit, the center mass of the body, the only place where her armor was steel. _That's Eorlund for you._ Custom made and adapted after person and function, both in design and practicality.

Aela gracefully scaled the stone wall as I went past her into the courtyard. Knowing what was to come, my body prepared for combat by rushing my system with adrenaline, sharpening my senses and reflexes. The men by the door were still facing one another, but I knew that would soon change. Tightening my grip, I charged into the courtyard. My body began feeling warm, as if it was working on overdrive. This felt distinctively different than training and sparring.

Someone shouted on the wall to my right, quickly followed by the sound of an arrow being let loose slightly behind me on my left. Aela worked fast, but not fast enough. We had been spotted. The two men, though still far away both turned toward me, warned by the shout. A quick scan showed two archers on the wall to my right, and two on my left. No sign of the last archer, Alea must have dealt with him already.

My ears reacted first as an arrow came flying toward me from my right. Instinct kicked in as I ducked, mid-sprint, and the arrow whistled above my head. Odd, I hadn't seen it but it felt as if it had flown slower than arrows should fly. The second archer on my right worked just as fast, aiming his bow and letting another arrow loose. This one I saw coming. Again, it felt odd. I could see it coming for me through the air, it moved fast yet seemingly slower than it should.

Briefly, I remembered Farkas used his armor to block incoming arrows as he ran. At the sudden curiosity, I couldn't help but try doing the same.

My senses sharpened even further as I focused on the approaching arrow. I could already tell where it would strike. My ears were warm by the increased blood flow as I slightly twisted my torso and lowered my shoulder.

My shoulder plate rang loud as the arrow ricocheted off of it, striking precisely where I had intended. Unaffected by the arrow, I continued my charge, filled with a feeling of excitement and pride that it had worked. _How easy it had felt_. As if, had I wanted to, I could've caught the arrow with my bare hand.

Finally closing in on the two men I reminded myself to ignore the archers. Aela will handle them. And they won't risk hitting their own men as I get closer.

The two men stood ready as I closed the distance. The one on the right had a sword and shield, the other one nothing but a sword. The window of surprise had closed long ago. I had no choice but to take them head-on. But they saw me coming, were prepared for it. No matter how I made my first move, they'd see it coming. I would miss. I had to force their movement. Get them to where I wanted. The fort was behind them so they couldn't retreat more than a step or two, lest they wanted to end up with their backs against the wall. I'd use that. A wide swing would force them back. Or for them to duck under.

With a few paces left, I lifted my axe horizontally to my right, preparing to strike._ I'd force them back._

The muscles in my arms tightened as I began my swing. Both men instantly reacted. The one on the right lifted his shield, while the other one jumped back. Surely he didn't intend to block my axe? _Idiot!_

It was impossible to tell which sound came first. My axe hitting his shield or his shield smashing into the side of his face.

He spun violently as my axe broke through and sent him flying, his splintered shield following closely behind. It was the only reason his head was still intact.

My axe pulled me left and I continued forward with the momentum, slamming my shoulder into the second man, who hadn't had time to react. Something cracked as he slammed into the stone wall behind him. Getting crushed between a stone wall and heavy armored Companion was sure to break ribs.

Sliding down the wall he dropped to his knees, grasping for the air that had left him. I didn't wait for him to regain it as I stepped back and lifted my axe above my head. Like chopping wood, I swung down hard. My axe didn't stop until it was embedded halfway through his torso.

I calmly drew a breath before I stepped on his shoulder and pulled my axe out of his halfway split corpse. I felt horrible at the sight, disgusted even. Killing people with a sword or arrows had never been this ugly. Unlike a sword, my axe didn't make clean cuts. Nor did it leave people with nothing but shafts of wood sticking out of them. It simply split whatever I hit in two. It was bloody, messy. Yet nothing compared to what Farkas had done in Dustman's Cairn.

_This wasn't pretty at all._

A gurgling moan behind me caused me to turn. _He hadn't died?_ He didn't look much better. Splinters from his shield were embedded in half his face, his left cheekbone had turned to a deep dent as it had broken into his face and the left side of his jaw had dislocated and hung all twisted and ugly. A white liquid ran down the side of his face as one eye had been ruptured by the splinters.

_This… wasn't pretty at all…_

"Klll me," he garbled, the words twisted and pained. Not only was his jaw dislocated, but I could see now that his bloodied mouth was also missing teeth. But it wasn't hard to understand him.

_You would've been better off not blocking at all._ Taking a hit like that must surely have injured his brain as well. He might not even be fully aware anymore. Drifting… between life and death.

Jerked by a sudden pain in my left shoulder, I toppled to my right. _Crap!_ I had forgotten all about the archers.

The arrow had found its way comfortably and precise between my shoulder plate and the arm plate. Nothing but a lucky strike. Though not wearing a helmet I supposed I was the lucky one, had he aimed for my head. Maybe he had.

Quickly, I turned toward the archer now on my left side. The second one was gone, surely dealt with by Aela. He hadn't taken much time to notch another arrow on his bow and was already aiming it at me.

One of Aela's arrows hit him straight through his neck the moment he let it loose, but his arrow was still coming for me. Being prepared, it wasn't hard to dodge. A simple sidestep and it flew right past me.

This time I was certain. The arrow had seemed to fly slower. Not noticeably so, but enough to make me question it. Was the adrenaline not only sharpening my senses but my perception as well? Was this yet another perk of being moon born? Surely it was. It had to be. And no matter, once again I liked it. How much more strength had the wolf-blood given me that I had yet to discover? How many more secrets now hid within my body?

I turned my head towards Aela, standing atop the stone wall as she gave a clear nod over the distance. That must have been the last one.

The battle couldn't have lasted more than a minute. If even that. Yet it had felt longer. Odd how time seems to slow when there is plenty going on. And if adrenaline really did slow my perception of time, the feeling would only be more apparent.

Finally able to relax I turned my attention to my arm. The arrow wasn't deep, yet I could feel it in my skin. Hopefully, it isn't deep enough that I'd have to push it through my arm. At this moment, that kind of injury isn't something we can afford. Being a two-handed-wielder I'm kind of forced to rely on both my arms.

I leaned my axe against the wall and grabbed the shaft of the arrow, giving it a light tug. A brief moment of pain as I pulled at it, yet it easily came loose from my arm. It was however still stuck in the double layer of furred wolf skin beneath my armor. And no matter how I twisted and jerked, it didn't come loose. So I simply broke off the arrow, as close to the arrowhead I could, and pushed it through the wolf suit and worked it down and out of my sleeve.

As I took a look at it, the arrowhead was surprisingly light in color for steel, almost like silver. There was a bit of blood on it. Not much, but it had clearly broken the skin and gotten deep, but thanks to the wolf suit not deep enough to get stuck in my flesh. _Guess I really did get lucky._

Tossing the arrowhead aside I looked over at Aela, jogging toward me across the courtyard, before turning my attention to the dying man on the ground.

He was still breathing. Slowly and heavily. Pained. The one eye that wasn't mush didn't seem to be present, staring into the sky as if in a trance.

"I saw that. How is your arm?" Aela asked as she came up close.

"It's fine…" I answered, my eyes still set on the man. "Barely broke skin."

"Good. Let's get inside then."

"What about him?" I lifted my head towards Aela.

"What about him?"

"We can't just leave him like this?"

"By the looks of it, he'll be dead in minutes."

"But… He's suffering."

"So leave him to suffer! He's a Silver Hand, given the chance he'd do worse to you!"

I was taken aback by her words. Aela would leave an opponent to suffer? Intentionally? That's not… Companions fought fair. Clean. We didn't fight out of cruelty. We fought for honor. How many times hadn't Skjor told me to kill quickly, both out of skill and mercy? _Don't leave them to suffer. _Never before had I believed Aela to be cruel. Like me, she grew up a hunter. Surely she must have been taught the same? But perhaps her reasoning wasn't that of cruelty, but hurry for Skjor? I told myself it was the latter.

"Well, I'm not _them_," I finally said. Of that, I was certain.

Aela let out an impatient sigh as she turned her head towards the door, then back at me. "Well get it over with quickly then. We don't have time to waste."

I sighed as well, as I turned toward the man. I reached for my dagger, resting in its hilt on my belt, as I kneeled down beside him. He was breathing through his mouth, causing a gurgling sound as blood was running down the corner of his hanging jaw. His breathing was as heavy and slow as before, and his one eye was still locked into the sky. It didn't even flinch as I must have come into his view by now. I wasn't even certain if he ¨was there¨ anymore. A part of that made it easier. For had he been looking at me, truly looking at me, this would've become a lot harder.

I hadn't had to mercy kill anything other than deer before. This felt vastly different than taking a life in battle. In battle, one simply fought until there was but one left standing. Nothing but skill deciding the outcome. One was rarely given much time to think of anything but one's next move. There was a warrior's honor in that.

But now? Now there was simply me. Holding a dagger over a dying man's chest who wasn't even able to defend himself. Perhaps his mind had already reached Sovngarde, and he was already feasting with his fallen brothers in the afterlife. Or perhaps his mind was still in there, fighting for its life in a dying body.

Deer would always move, eyes flickering, legs kicking. They'd fight for their lives until the very end. And they'd always look at you. Always… He didn't.

I could feel my hands shaking. Not enough to be seen, but enough that I felt it. No. ¨Kill me.¨ He had said, while he still had been able to talk. Those had been his final words. His final request. The only cruelty here would be not honoring them. He was still in there… Surrendered. He had given up. Now he was simply waiting for it to end. For me to end it.

_Just like a deer. Between the ribs, into the heart._

My hands stopped shaking as I made up my mind and pushed it down. He didn't react at all as life left him. His breathing simply stopped. And just like a deer, his eye turned dull, hollow, and empty.

"Sure took your time," Aela said before I even had time to pull out my dagger. "Now let's move."


	26. Krev ¨the Skinner¨

"Look at this. Cowards must have locked the place down after Skjor charged them. You can _taste_ the fear." Whatever worry Aela harbored earlier had clearly vanished the moment Skjor's survival had been confirmed. The moment we entered the fort, a certain ¨fire¨ in her eyes had been rekindled.

The room wasn't all that big. A few sturdy oak tables stood here and there and lit torches decorated the old walls, along with a chandelier hanging from the stone ceiling. It was an entrance, nothing more. One thing stood out though: The iron-barred door leading to a basement. The lever to open the bars was on _our_ side of the door. Clearly, the bars weren't designed to keep intruders out; they were designed to keep whatever they had inside, inside.

"Skjor's somewhere ahead. We need to find him." Aela already had her hand on the lever as she spoke, pulling it down with a metallic clank as the mechanism began to work its magic; sounds of chains rustled within the walls as the bars began to lift with a harsh rusty shrill as metal ground against stone.

"Take the lead. I'll cover you with my bow. Any sign of Silver Hands, you move left and I'll take the right." Aela was definitely back to her normal controlling self, confidently delivering commands as if it was her second nature, surely something she had adopted from Skjor. Still, I gave her a nod as her strategy was sound. It was the reason Companions had shield-siblings; we had each other's backs.

The stairs were steep and narrow, there was barely room enough for me to hold my axe by my side. Aela easily hid behind my frame as we quietly moved down the stairs. Well, as quietly as heavy armored Companions possibly could since my heavy footsteps echoed down the hallway. I tried to move quieter, but the stairs _were_ steep.

The hallway sharply turned to our left when we reached the bottom of the stairs. I could hear voices around the corner, maybe three of them. It was a wonder they hadn't heard us already, but it seemed they were too busy arguing amongst themselves to keep an ear out for intruders.

"Let's take them quick," Aela whispered behind me.

_Follow her strategy, _I reminded myself. I'll take the one on the left she'll take the one on the right. I gave her a quick nod before I charged the corner.

They were clearly unprepared and taken by surprise as they all, in sync, turned toward us as we came charging. There were three of them. _Focus on the one on the left, ignore the others. _The one I charged had nothing but a sword as I moved for him. He drew it from his hilt as I closed in. _Block his first strike, bash to stun, axe to his stomach._ An arrow whistled past my right side as Aela worked her bow behind me.

I leveled my axe as his sword arm moved to strike. His sword bounced off my handle as I blocked. Continuing forward, I bashed the handle into his face, forcing him to stagger back, followed by flawless execution of my strategy. I quickly drew my arms back to swing my axe forward, feeling it force its way into his stomach. With a pained grunt, the man bent halfway over my axe. Kicking my heel toward him, I pulled out my axe with a disgusting sound, like a fat man smacking his even fatter mouth. My opponent had yet to hit the floor as I turned toward the others. They both already lie dead on the floor, arrows embedded through their necks. Aela was as fast as she was accurate.

This was a larger room than the one we had been in before. Still, looking around I could see little of value as Aela turned over one of the corpses with her foot. There were mostly piles of chopped wood along the walls, some torches, and-except for two doors-not much else.

"These have been dealt with. Let's move."

I agreed with a look before I moved for one of the doors, the one that was open, while Aela went for the second door. A quick peek around the corner revealed an empty staircase going further down. _How deep did this place go?_ Warm air rose from the stairs, together with the smell of cooking. A kitchen perhaps.

"It's locked," Aela said in a low voice as she had felt the other door. She quickly moved to the opposing side of my doorway. Again, she gave me a nod to move first. So I did. I was better armored than her, and she had a bow. It only made sense I'd move first.

The left turn at the bottom of the stairs lead into yet another room. My nose had been right, a kitchen. It was empty of people, yet the fireplace was still burning. A pot of stew hung boiling above the fire and plates and cutlery sat in rows on the tables, together with vegetables and spices, diced and ready for cooking. Tilma herself would have been proud of how organized the kitchen looked. But with pots of food still cooking, it had clearly been abandoned in a hurry. And recently. Most likely close to the same time the man outside had yelled ¨werewolf,¨ drawing the horde of Silver Hands inside the building.

But where had they all gone? We hadn't entered that much later, yet so far we have only seen three of them. Where's the rest?

With little time to pause the two of us moved for the only door there was. Not stairs this time. A hallway appeared before us, long and dark, except for a few lit candles decorating the shelves that dotted the left wall. Along the right side, there appeared to be a row of doors. As we slowly moved forward it became apparent that the barred doors on our left were holding cells.

"What?" Aela asked as I stopped in front of her.

"There's something on the floor." Something lay on the floor in the middle of the hallway not far ahead. Even with my eyes, it was hard to make out what the dark pile was. But I could smell blood.

Moving forward, I realized it was a body... no, a corpse. I couldn't help but notice the dagger embedded in his skull as I stepped over the body. It had entered through the bottom of his chin. Not somewhere you'd aim if it had been from a fight. _Had he been taken by surprise?_ Not having the time to stop, I decided not to give it any extra thought and continued forward.

"Wait…" Aela had stopped on the other side of the body, eyeing the cell next to her, as I turned. She seemed frozen in place by the way she was standing. I had gotten accustomed to seeing her work her nose by now, and she smelled something. "Skjor's been here."

I didn't know how to react. Relief that we were on the right track? Or even more worry, that he had been here, in a cell? But the corpse outside the cell said it all. Skjor had been here. And he had managed to escape. Recently. Had we only been faster...

Aela slowly walked around the body, working her head like a dog searching for a rabbit hole. She kneeled down next to the body and lifted something up. I had mistaken the black piece of fur for a small carpet when I walked over it, But now that she lifted it up in the air I instantly recognized it for what it was. Half the Wolf fursuit. The second half didn't lay far away. I knew there was only one reason it would have unbuttoned.

"We need to move." Aela gave me a serious look, still holding the piece of fursuit in her hands. "He's transformed. That means he'll move faster than us. And with all the Silver Hands… We need to move."

She was right. Had Skjor transformed, there was no telling what the Silver Hand would do in order to stop him. They'd throw everything they had at him. At Dustman's Cairn, Farkas had easily taken on half a dozen Silver Hands. That memory still gave me chills. But the Silver Hands hadn't known Farkas could change at will. They had been unprepared for it, taken by surprise. But now we were inside one of their largest outposts, if not _the _largest. Still, the men outside had clearly been taken off guard when that man had screamed ¨werewolf.¨ Maybe they weren't prepared for it after all? Nonetheless, the situation was still bad.

Cell after cell passed as we moved down the corridor, all of them empty. When we reached the end we were met by a twin door. It stood open, broken and unhinged, gaping with invitation for what was within. Something had broken straight through it, and I knew that _something_ was, without a doubt, Skjor.

A bad feeling overwhelmed me as we entered the room. The smell of blood, which I thought had come from the body in the hallway behind us, had only grown stronger. And it seemed this room was to blame. It reeked of the metallic scent from dried blood that covered the floor. The tables were filled with rows of knives in all different shapes and sizes. Ragged tools and contraptions hung from the walls: branding irons, thorned whips, blunt iron clubs, spiked chairs, cages. I lacked the imagination needed to figure out how most of the blood-covered contraptions here even worked. But it was clear to me that nothing here was intended to do good. The room was filled with more tools than any torture chamber could ever call for.

_What kind of sadist could possibly need this much?_

"I knew the Silver Hand had a darker side to them. But I never imagined this," Aela said as she walked over to the tables to investigate. She took one of the curved knives and checked its sharpness with her thumb. "Odd."

"What is?"

"They're not made of silver."

"Why is that odd?"

"You haven't noticed the Silver Hand use silver weapons?"

"I have. But I don't know why that is."

Aela gave me a look as if she had believed me to know something I didn't. "Silver negates our healing. That means whoever uses this room intended for their victims to heal quickly, so they can go back to being tortured again. It's not the dumbest of ideas."

What? How had they forgotten to tell me something that important? But it wasn't the first time Skjor and Aela had withheld information on the downsides of lycanthropy. I could understand them not telling me of things like a shorter temper and increased hunger. But the nightmares? The new ¨personality¨ within me that sometimes decided to claw for control? And now she's telling me silver negates my healing. I thought a weakness like that would've been one of the first things they'd mention? Honestly, their disregard to teach me about the downsides had started to piss me off. Guess Vilkas was right. ¨They're much to ¨in love¨ with their wolves to ever consider them as downsides.¨

"And this you tell me now?"

"What?"

"That silver negates our healing?"

"Considering the amount of time you spend with Vilkas, I thought you knew already. Or that you'd figure it out after that arrow?"

The arrow? I hadn't paid any attention to it since it was barely an injury. But now that I did, I could still feel the wound sting in my shoulder. It had only broken skin and should have healed in a minute. Less. Yet it hadn't. "You're the one who turned me! Don't you think it falls on you and Skjor to tell me these things? Like the nightmares! The anger!"

"We all have nightmares, there's nothing new in that. And most of those things I expected you to find out by yourself."

"And what of the _other _things? You could at least have the decency to tell me ¨Oh yeah, and silver kills you.¨ Or did you figure I'd find that out myself as well by, I don't know, _getting stabbed!_"

"Fine! I forgot!" It seemed my temper had gotten to Aela as well, judging by how her cheeks took on an angry blush. "That what you want to hear? Now enough with this! I don't have time for your whining, we need to find Skjor." With that said, she tossed the knife back on the table and turned for the next door.

"Is there anything else you _forgot_ to tell me?"

"By Ysgramor, I don't know," she said in an annoyed voice as she stopped halfway to the door and turned back toward me. "Small things piss you off, you eat for two, keep a leash on your wolf or he might turn on you, and yeah, you can't go to Sovngarde."

I felt bitter as I shifted my weight on my heels, like the lid on a pot on the verge of boiling over. Maybe I had overreacted. Fighting amongst ourselves right now wasn't the smartest of actions. Besides, it wasn't as if I had ever asked. Like Aela said, most of the things I _had _come to learn as they appeared. "Yeah, Kodlak and Vilkas did tell me those things."

"Well, of course, they did," Aela said with a snarky tone. "And I suppose they, too, forgot to mention silver."

They had. Maybe I was being too hard on her. I guess this was one of those times when I didn't know if my anger was my own, or if my wolf had conjured it against me.

Aela sighed as she calmed herself. "It doesn't matter, the strengths outweigh the weaknesses. Now let'smove."

"Yes." I'd had enough of this room. Maybe it was the stench of blood that had stirred the wolf within me, or maybe my sudden outburst of anger was my own and in and of itself justified. Right now I didn't know. But we had more important things to worry about. _Just focus on finding Skjor. _"Lead on."

Aela had already turned and was heading through the door. I had to take up a brisk walk to catch up with her before she got too far ahead. It felt good to leave this room. I almost bumped into Aela as she had stopped right inside the next room, her gaze frozen straight ahead. That feeling of relief I had felt... It vanished the moment I looked over her shoulder.

Werewolves…

Cage after cage lined the walls. Deceased beasts locked within. Chains with hooks hung from the ceiling, suspending skinned carcasses of humanoid monsters in the air. Thick-furred pelts were strapped in stretching frames, left to dry. There were bloody rags everywhere and flies buzzed around the insane number of buckets on the floor, each of them filled to the brim with intestines and organs. One wall was covered in shelves, holding beast head after beast head. As if they were on display. Their eyes dull and white. No human could bring themselves to treat any creature like this. Werewolf or not.

My stomach turned at the sight. The stench of blood and flesh had only grown stronger and I found myself covering my mouth with the back of my hand. Were they sent here for slaughter? Or were they sent here after the previous room had tortured them to death? I'd rather go back to the torture chamber than spend another second in here. It was revolting.

"Those monsters…" Aela whispered to herself. She didn't need to specify who she believed the _monsters _to be. "Hircine's vengeance upon them. Ysgramor's rage, Shor's wrath..."

Aela's quiet cursing continued as she slowly walked into the room. The sights and smells made me dizzy with repulsion. But I knew I had to follow her, even if I had to force myself. The headless, skinned creatures in the cells seemed to have been left to rot where they were. Flies everywhere. How long had they been there? The ones hanging in chains were fresher. Recently skinned. They still had their heads. How long had they been tortured before they were tossed in here? I had never seen anything like this before. Not even in my nightmares.

I tried not to touch anything as we walked, easier said than done, as we had to duck under one of the hanging corpses to get through. My senses felt overwhelmed, sight, smell, even my ears unconditionally focused in on the flies, as their buzzing seemed to grow stronger. But inside the buzzing of the flies, there was something else. A weak whimper?

"There's a live one." Aela stopped in front of me and turned toward a rug covered cage. She had heard it too. Without hesitation, she pulled the rug off the cage.

The creature within screamed with fear as the rug left his cage. I jerked back in fright and surprise at the high pitched scream. It sounded almost like a pup getting injured, but more… human. The cage rattled as it pushed itself into the corner furthest away from the cage door. It was as if removing the rug had caused it immense pain and terror. Such a large beast, yet it seemed so small as it panicked, curled up into a ball in the corner. Violently attempting to hide. I had never seen eyes filled with such fear. No matter how much the beast curled up, it's clawed feet kept scraping against the cage floor, desperately attempting to push itself even further into the corner. Away from us.

How could one of Hircine's proudest creatures have been reduced to… to this? Who could possibly have done such a thing? The whimpering tore at my heart. And Aela clearly wasn't having it either, her expression something between pity and rage.

"It's... It's not a full moon. Is it…" I had to force the words.

"It's not Skjor," Aela said with ironclad certainty.

"Then how… how is he transformed?"

"He's gone feral."

"Feral?"

"Some can't separate the animal from themselves. So they turn. Some, indefinitely."

Indefinitely? "Can't… can't we help him?"

"If his wolf has been reduced to this I don't imagine much of the human is left." Aela shook her head. First at me and then at the room. "That's what they do, isn't it. The torture chamber breaks the human. And this room, the wolf."

To think not long ago I'd had the thought the Silver Hand to be honorable. Like us. Fighting in the name of Ysgramor. No. What I saw here opened my eyes to what they were. And there was nothing honorable about them.

"Can't we at least let him out?"

"You didn't notice?" Aela gave me a look. "The cage door isn't locked. All he has to do is push it open."

Such cruelty. Breaking someone's will to the point where fear alone keeps them caged.

"We'll kill them all," Aela said as she turned to walk for the next door.

I gave the curled-up creature one last look before I followed her. It was shivering like a leaf, it didn't even dare look at me.

_Yes. We'll kill them all…_

Like the doors before this one, it was torn open. Leading into a short hallway turning sharp to the right a few meters before us. There was a puddle of fresh blood coming from around the corner. I had already seen enough blood down here to last me a lifetime, but I had the feeling I would only see more. Something in me didn't want to turn the corner. But we didn't have much of a choice, did we? I readied my axe as I reluctantly turned the corner. First me, then Aela.

The torches covered the wide corridor with warm yellow light, but the thick layer of dark red blood splattered on the walls and floor absorbed all the light they could summon, making it darker than it ought to be. The yellow light that didn't darken against red fell on the piles of corpses on the wet floor, reaching all the way to the end of the corridor. Slaughtered humans laying atop one another. Their gaping mouths wore an expression of horror and death. The light shimmered against their dull eyes. They had been butchered. Torn to shreds. Body parts and intestines everywhere. The same way Farkas had ripped the Silver Hand asunder at Dustman's Cairn. Their contours easily hid the fact that the floor was flat.

I didn't think the stench of blood and guts could get any worse, but now it was so thick I could taste it in my throat. It was repulsing. What had we gotten ourselves into? First the torture chamber, a slaughter room, and now a corridor so filled with death it might have been summoned from the depths of Oblivion itself.

"Seems this is where they caught up to Skjor. Serves them right." Aela didn't seem to care for the carnage as she walked past me, stepping on corpses as she headed down the corridor. She walked so casually I got the feeling this wasn't the first time she had seen something like this, not at all how she had reacted to seeing the werewolves.

I didn't feel comfortable following her, but what choice did I have? The blood-covered floor felt sticky under my boots as I walked. I couldn't help but stare at the first corpse I came upon. His lower half was missing, torn off from his waist. His guts hung out of his torso like a pile of worms wriggling their way out of him. His expression was that of pure horror. Silver Hand or not, this wasn't a good way for any warrior to go.

The bodies were slippery as I began walking over them. Turning beneath my feet. I almost lost my balance a couple of times as I tried to keep up with Aela. And any time I'd slip and reach for support, I'd find my hand against the wet, blood-splattered wall. Every now and then my foot would slip in between the body parts, like stepping in heavy snow, and I'd have to jerk my leg to get it out. The way the bodies moved when I did so made me sick to my stomach. How many corpses were there? A lot more than we had seen run inside, that was for certain.

"You sure Skjor's behind this?"

"Oh, that's my Skjor for you. As fierce and brutal as ever."

_My Skjor?_ Guess that confirmed the rumors. She had turned her head away from me the moment she had said it. _A slip of the tongue?_ Not that it mattered. But one thing was for certain. Aela was far too casual to not have seen something like this before. And I didn't know how I felt about that.

"Hurry up. He can't be far ahead now." Aela took up her pace as she walked over the corpses with ease. Stepping on torsos rather than limbs.

It wasn't easy to keep up. Not only didn't she seem to mind stepping on them, but she didn't wear a full set of heavy armor either. Even if I followed in her footsteps I weighted way too much not to push bodies aside as I stepped on them. I couldn't imagine myself get used to the feeling, no matter how many I stepped on.

TOddly enough the twin door at the end was shut, not torn open like the ones before, which was odd. Aela had her bow ready as I walked up next to her. The door was heavy and didn't move as I gave it a light push with my hand. I placed my shoulder against the door and looked at Aela. She moved up behind me and prepared her bow, taking aim over my shoulder as I leaned my weight against it.

The oak door moved heavily and creaked as I pushed my weight against it. The door cracked open and a rush of air blew over my face as it entered the corridor, washing away most of the stench of blood around us as it made the torch fires dance behind us.

The door wasn't fully open as I continued to push. But, based on the wall that came into view, I could tell it was a large circular room. More torches were mounted on the walls and thick stone pillars kept up the heavy ceiling. As the door opened further, it revealed a portion of the floor that was elevated at the opposite side of the room. No more than a step or two. It almost looked like a stage. Or a ceremonial platform of sorts.

Someone was crouched down in the center of it, sitting with his knees crossed and back turned against us. He wore a helmet, so the back of his head was covered, and his plate armored back glistened with yellow and red in the torchlight. His shoulders were moving. He seemed to be working on something. Something large and dark on the floor in front of him. Something furred.

"Skjor!" Aela shouted as the door finally opened. She quickly pushed past me and stormed into the room, stopping a few steps in front of me as the man had reacted to our presence without moving. Only tilting his right ear towards us.

I hurried to Aelas side but stopped as he began to speak.

"So this one belongs to you?" The voice was soft. Teasing. Almost seductive. Not at all what I had expected.

A woman?

In a fluid motion, she stood without using her hands, gracefully turning her body towards us as her crossed legs turned parallel, one in front of the other.

It _was_ a woman. The helmet covered her face, but the front of her chest plate clearly wasn't shaped for a man. It was far too feminine, curved and formed after her slender waist and firm breasts. Sensually so. It wasn't something one would easily come by in a store... or even at a smith. It was so skillfully crafted that, if I didn't know better, I'd say Dibella herself had given it form.

She held her arms out to her side, a curved knife pointing down in one hand and a large bloody rag in the other. Her pose was almost divine as she stood before us, elevated by the floor and surrounded by torchlight. Both her hands were covered in blood, dripping down her forearms and elbows. No… it wasn't a rag she was holding. It was a piece of furred skin. And the large thing behind her? A werewolf. The side of his torso revealed red flesh.

_Had she been skinning him?_

"I soo wanted to have more time with him, but here you are. Seems my playtime is over," she said with a playful tease

"How… could you..." Aela choked, something ferocious shaking in her voice.

"How could I?" She almost giggled as she crossed her arms over her chest, one hand up as she placed the blade of her knife against her lips, or where her lips would be had her face not been covered. "How could I not? Poor thing could barely stand, jumping around on three legs and all. Actually, I'm surprised he managed to kill as many as he did." There was something... disturbing in her voice. As if she was enjoying herself. Toying with us. "Well… I guess they were weak." With an elegant gesture of her hand, she tossed the piece of skin on the floor. As if she was tossing away the thought of her men.

Didn't she care about them? The carnage behind us? Had it no effect on her at all?

"It's a shame… They were so devoted to finding you guys for me. Well, now I guess I'll have to find a new gang. Again." she sighed "I'm sure there are others than the Silver Hand willing to hunt werewolves for me… Perhaps the Vigilants of Stendarr? No… They're _far _too religious for my taste…" I didn't know if she was talking to herself or to us. But her head moved as if in thought, her gaze going from one side of the ceiling to the other as she slowly tilted her head left and right, and she gestured as she spoke. "Well… It was fun while it lasted."

"You didn't… Skjor wouldn't fall to someone like you," Aela stated. Her voice was serious. Deep.

Was it really Skjor? Everything felt so confusing right now. The last couple of rooms, the caged werewolf, the hallway. One thing after the other had bombarded me since we set foot in this sickening fort. Even before that. Was it really Skjor, laying behind her? Could he really be d—

"So that's his name!?" Her voice lit up as she turned her attention back to Aela. "And you knew him? I like to give them their own names. Not that it matters really. In the end, they always end up as ¨pup.¨ But this is even better!" Her gesturing had turned energic. Like a child, excitingly hooking their first fish. I couldn't tell her expression for the helmet covering her face, but I couldn't imagine she was anything but smiling. "Was he stubborn?! He was, wasn't he? He just wouldn't give up! No matter how much I toyed with him. Such a shame I had to put him down so quickly. The stubborn ones are the most fun to break. If only we had had more time together."

"I'll… kill you…" Aela was tense. Almost shaking. Her red hair covered the side of her face so I couldn't see her expression. I wasn't sure I wanted to.

"You're just like dogs! No matter how fierce and scary you _seem_ to be, if you're treated right you'll become soft like puppies. Obedient. Some use whips, but I find knives work better. As long as you don't die, your skin will grow back. You heal _soo_ quickly. Not at all like the dogs we had when I was a kid. I've always been amazed by that."

"You're sick…"

"The waist down. That's my rule. Even humans survive that for a while. And when you cry. Ooh… Have you ever heard a werewolf cry? It's so… human." She caressed her fingers down her neck, over the breasts of her chest plate and down her waist, leaving lines of red after her fingers. It made me sick. "And when your eyes turn soft. And that flame they carry goes numb. You just know you've surrendered. Broken. It's so beautiful… Aah. I wish I had gotten to see that with your ¨Skjor.¨ But he _was _stubborn." She gently kicked her heel back at the creature behind her as she said his name.

"I'll kill you!" Aela was holding her bow so tightly her knuckles whitened, as she in rage fumbled to put the arrow in place. Had she lost it?

"Yes! Those are the eyes! So fierce! So filled with anger! " She leaned forward with her arms held out to her sides as she shouted in glee. As if she was about to embrace us. "Wouldn't you transform for me?! I'll play with you longer! I promise."

As I looked at Aela, her eyes glowed yellow with fury, more so than I ever had seen Vilka's. Her expression was rage, as if her very soul was on fire. She had lost it. There was no doubt. I readied my axe as I knew she was going to act. By Ysmir, she'd already begun as she lifted her bow and let an arrow loose with a scream.

The woman laughed as she ducked under it. Again, Aela screamed as she let another arrow loose, and again the woman evaded. Laughing, like a girl having the time of her life. Again Aela let an arrow loose. And again she evaded.

Aela had lost it. She let loose one arrows after the other as fast as she could, making no attempt to aim as she did so. And the woman continued to laugh as she evaded them as easy as a child evaded snowballs, moving toward the pillars for cover.

I don't know why I hadn't reacted earlier. It felt as if something within me was holding me back. But Aela _had_ lost it. And she needed me.

Axe in hand, I charged at the woman as she disappeared behind the pillar. I moved for the left side of the pillar as I knew Aela would take the right. But considering the state she was in, would she even be capable of basic fighting strategy? I kept moving. There was no way of knowing.

Axe on my left, I rounded the corner, swinging it horizontally towards the woman as she had taken cover with her back against the pillar. It spat gravel as my axe smashed into its side, she had ducked under and took a jump away from me as I pulled my axe from the pillar. I'd force her toward the wall. I pushed forward, swinging my axe at her at every opening I got. Still, she evaded with ease. All while laughing.

How could she move so quickly in heavy armor? She was as fast as Vilkas, perhaps even faster. Was she really human? I could use Aela right about now!

She evaded my swing with a deep crouch. In the same motion, I lifted my axe behind and over my head and swung it down. She jumped back toward the wall as my axe smashed the stone floor by her feet. Gracefully she continued moving back into an opening in the wall. _How had I missed that? By Ysmir, how did I not notice an entire opening?!_

"Now!" She shouted.

_A trap?!_

A metallic clank reached my ears and I hastily retreated back as iron bars fell down between us, sealing the opening in an instance.

"See! Even cowards like you can be of use. I might just forgive you for trying to run."

The opening she had entered turned to the right behind her, and she was clearly speaking to someone around that corner. I recognized him the moment he poked his head out to take a look. It was the young man. The one who had screamed ¨werewolf.¨

"And you… you're no fun at all." She almost sounded disappointed as she turned her attention back to me. "You're handsome. Large. I'll give you that. But you don't have the eyes of a wolf. Where's that flame? The anger? The rage? I did kill your friend, you know."

It made me uncomfortable that her helmet covered her face. I couldn't even see her eyes. It made her seem emotionless. But at the same time, the way she talked and moved gave of such emotion. And not normal ones. What was wrong with this woman? Most people would fear to stand against two Companions, even more so knowing we're both werewolves. Yet she acted out of enjoyment. As if it was all some sadistic game she found pleasure in… She wasn't sane…

I almost felt our roles were reversed. As if, something in _me _feared _her_…

_Get it together!_ I'm a Companion! A respected member of the Circle! By Ysmir, I'm a werewolf! I shouldn't fear anyone! Much less a human!

"Let's go Krev," the man around the corner pleaded.

_Krev?_

"Oh, we're leaving," Krev answered as she turned toward him. "Seems we have plenty of work to do. Finding more men for starters… You don't happen to know of any other Silver Hand camps, do you? Don't think we can stay here anymore." She turned her back toward me as she began to walk away.

That's it? Was she leaving? Had she really killed Skjor? Had she really…

I felt my heartbeat grow stronger. My ears warmed and I was clenching my jaw. My right hand squeezed the handle of my axe and by instinct, I grabbed one of the bars in front of me with my left, feeling the rough iron dig into my hand as I squeezed.

"Krev!" I shouted after her. I wasn't afraid anymore… I was angry.

She stopped and gently turned on her feet, like a dancer preparing to bow. Her emotionless masked face pointing straight at me.

"We'll find you! Wherever you go, we'll hunt you down! And we **will **find you!"

"Now there they are!" Again, she lit up with happiness. Her masked face might not give off emotion, but every tone in her voice told me she was smiling. It infuriated me. "Those are the eyes! So fierce! Scary even! But I'm afraid we can't play any longer. Perhaps we'll meet again… No-wait-what's-thaaat?" She pushed her head slightly forward as she had asked, and the tone of her question was that of a child seeing a ladybug for the first time. "Oh we'll most definitely meet again… Yess wee will… Perhaps sooner than you think." With a twirl, she turned back to her original position. She gestured nonchalantly over her shoulder and began to walk away. "Look forward to it. I know I will."

"KREV!" I kicked and pulled at the bars as she disappeared around the corner. Sparks flew as I smashed my axe into the iron bars time and time again. But no matter what, they wouldn't budge. I felt my blood boil as I shouted after her. But she was already gone.

_Aela! Where was she?_

I turned toward the chamber. And there she was, kneeling by the beast on the stage. She was holding its large head in her hands, resting it on her lap as her face was lowered above it. Her red hair hanging over her face.

_It couldn't be?_

There was something heavy growing in my stomach as I walked towards them. And my throat had begun to feel thick, swollen, as I stepped onto the stage.

_Was it really Skjor?_

He was large, at least three times the size of a man. He was humanoid, yet not. Something between a wolf and a man. Except for the side of his waist, which was skinned down to his thigh, dark ragged fur covered his body. There were arrows in his shoulders and deep cuts all over his torso. He must have fought bravely.

_Did she really recognize him? _ _Even in this form?_

The head in Aela's hands was purely that of a large wolf. Broad and powerful. But there was no yellow glow in his eyes. They were dull... white… hollow. There was a large pale scar over his left eye. And the eye itself had no iris and pupil as if it had been blinded long ago.

_A one-eyed beast… _My stomach took a turn for the worst. I could hardly breathe. _It couldn't be? But it was. Wasn't it._

Aela slowly lifted her head toward me. Her yellow burning eyes were filled with tears, leaving dark blue traces in her facepaint as they ran down her face. Her lips were slightly parted.

"He shouldn't have gone alone…" Her words hit me hard. For whose fault was it that he had gone alone? Who was it that had been late? There should have been three of us. "He shouldn't have gone alone… That bastard."

"Aela. I—"

"You should return to Jorrvaskr. Tell them what happened here. They'll want to know."

"We'll find her, Aela. We know her name. We'll find her, and we'll avenge him."

"That we will!" The fire in her eyes intensified. "Now get out of here! I'll care for Skjor. And I'll search the bodies for any information."

"I'll help y—"

"Just go…" She returned her attention to Skjor, caressing his head in her lap. "I'll take care of it. Just go."


	27. We Grieve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go.
> 
> Thank you all who are taking the time to read and enjoy my fic. It's far from complete and it makes me glad that there are people who read along as I write. I try to publish once every other week, but sometimes it might take a bit longer, due to me being a University student who works on the side. So I don't always have the time to write.
> 
> Also a thank you to my Beta, tejaswrites, who helps me with my grammar. :)  
She also writes her own stories here on AO3, so If anyone's into Dragon age fanfics, check her out.
> 
> It also feels great that my ¨worldbuiling¨ is over and that the story really is beginning to kick off now.  
I hope no one had guessed that Krev survived the first encounter since she didn't in the game.  
Got some more plans with her and we'll see her again.
> 
> That said.  
Enjoy this one and see you in two weeks, hopefully.  
\----------------------------------

The landscape was beautiful. Stripes of yellow, red, and green. Like spiked waves flowing across the fields of Rorikstead.

"Strange…" My brother said as he ran his fingers over the tracks.

"See that?"

"Those are wolf tracks."

"Four of them"

"But see here?"

"They all turned in their tracks."

"Wolves don't usually do that."

"Unless…" He slowly drew his bow as he rose.

"Run…" He whispered, eyes sharp on what he had seen.

"RUN!" He shouted as he lifted his bow.

And I ran…

As fast as I could…

With fear in my heart, I ran…

Not _daring_ to look back.

**COWARD!**

**WEAKLING!**

**HE DIED BECAUSE OF YOU!**

**HUMAN…**

No!

This time I'd save my brother!

This time!

Drawing my bow, I turned.

Yellow eyes facing me in the pitch-black dark.

Like moons, they shone with hatred and disdain.

In a second, terror and fear ran down my spine as I lifted my bow.

The deer hadn't noticed me as it stood by the riverbed.

Slowly, I inhaled through my nose and steadied my aim.

With a jerk, the deer lifted its head as a twig broke behind me.

I let the arrow loose as I exhaled.

But the deer had already moved aside.

"What was that?!" Ria laughed sarcastically behind me. "Didn't you used to be a hunter before you joined us?"

"Maybe if you didn't move like a bear, we would have food right now," I said with an annoyed tone as I turned to face her.

Darkness met me as yellow eyes of hatred froze me in place.

Like the eyes of a wolf in the night, staring down its prey.

Frightened, I lifted my bow in panic.

I felt my heart take a beat as I let the arrow loose.

I saw the arrow bend in the air as it adjusted to its flight path, straight towards the man's chest.

I missed.

A second heartbeat.

Adrenaline rushed down my legs.

A slight sense of panic?

He didn't even flinch as my arrow flew past his head, nearly touching his left ear.

His sword was already upon me.

This is bad!

By instinct, I bent my knees into a crouching position, breaking eye contact, and leaned forward.

¨First rule in a fight; never let your opponent out of sight.¨

A hard thud against my back. A metallic sound as his blade was blocked by my half-drawn great sword.

A third heartbeat…

Slamming my shoulder into his chest, he went airborne.

A grunt of pain. He landed hard on the stone floor, the air leaving his lungs.

With no time to draw my sword, I raised my foot.

Violently my heel reached for the stone beneath his skull.

The sound as horrid as one can imagine.

A fourth heartbeat…

Remembering to breathe again, I inhaled deeply.

With a deep exhale, I tucked away the black strands of hair that had fallen into my face.

Behind me, Farkas let out a whistling sound.

"Welcome to the Companions… Shield brother…"

Removing my foot, from the ¨mush¨ beneath my heel, I turned toward Farkas.

Faced with yellow hatred against black, I froze.

In fear, I no longer felt my heartbeats. As if forced, my eyes were locked into the yellow pair of moons sized eyes glared me down. I couldn't tell if they were distant, or close enough that I could reach for them. But everything in my body screamed for me to flee.

I had my bow.

This fear was… so familiar… yet not.

In panic, I lifted my bow and let the arrow loose towards the monster in the dark.

"Harder," Skjor said as my arrow hit its mark.

He was as strict as ever. Arms crossed and all.

"Your aim is good. But to pierce armor you need to pull harder. Force the arrow further back before you let go."

About to complain, I turned towards him.

A sharp burning pain across my face as the flat side of Skjor's blade hit my cheek.

"Lift your shield higher! Between your nose and stomach."

Regaining my footing I lifted my shield above my nose.

"Like this?"

My right leg gave way as Skjor's blade smacked my thigh. Forcing my knee down against training ground soil.

"Too high and you won't see low attacks."

Regaining my footing again, I rose, lifting my sword arm to take a stance.

"Come at me." A quick gesture with his hand as he spoke.

With my shield between me and him, I charged, lifting my sword to plunge.

He sidestepped and his sword locked on the inside of my shield, bending towards my shoulder as he jerked. And before I had time to react, my shield was on the ground, followed by his elbow striking hard into my face.

My eyes closed by reflex as I blindly stumbled back and tried to regain my footing. Skjor's arm pushed against my chest, his foot kicked behind my heel and I found myself falling through the air. My sword flew from my hand as I landed hard on my back.

"As long as you have weapons on your body you're still in the fight," he said.

I was annoyed now. Feeling my ears heat, I reached for my dagger and drew it in defense as I pulled myself up.

"Again!" he said.

Quickly moving forwards I charged, focusing on his feet this time.

He was fast!

Barely grazing my arm, he brushed against my shoulder as he used my movement against me. My dagger cut through air as he disappeared from my vision to place himself behind me.

Grabbing my dagger with both my hands I quickly turned, charging its tip towards where I believed him to be.

The world turned black as my dagger broke furred skin, all the colors in the world fleeing with its sound.

In shock, I let go of the blade as a bestial roar of pain echoed through the blackened void around us.

The roar was… almost human.

His claws let go of my shoulders. The towering beast toppled backward.

For a brief moment, the one-eyed beast glared at me, shocked… disappointed… afraid…

In that brief moment, I felt as afraid as his returning one-eyed look.

As if pushed by a wind, he fell over backward.

There was no sound when he landed on the eternal darkness beneath his back.

Only emptiness.

My hands were shaking as I stood in shock. Hands covered in red.

"Skjor?..."

I sunk to my knees before the limp beast.

Around us was nothing but silent darkness.

I felt like a child, locked in a pitch-black closet with nothing but tears, fear, and despair.

"Skjor. I…"

I could barely breathe.

I reached one hand towards his limp body, afraid to touch him as my fingertips grazed his fur. And as I touched him, his furred skin tore open as if a knife was cutting through it, skinning him from within.

My hand drew back in shock. Pieces of fur began falling from his body. One by one they folded over and dropped into the darkness beneath us, some larger than others. His fur and skin continued to peel off and fall. And I could do nothing but watch in horror, until nothing but a bloodied, skinless werewolf lay before me.

Horror given form.

With my dagger still in its chest.

The smell of blood and flesh, so strong I could taste it. So strong it choked me.

My stomach turned as I doubled over.

Belching between my knees.

Vomiting into the void beneath us.

My eyes were watering, and I felt the tears run down my face as I slowly straightened and lifted my head.

And again I froze as my eyes met the darkness before me, this time more so by hopelessness than fear as I was faced with yellow eyes the size of moons.

Glaring in the dark.

Sharp, hungry eyes.

The darkness around us wasn't silent anymore.

I could hear it.

A deep growl.

Like a wolf in the night… hunting its prey.

My body felt like ice as my eyes were locked onto his, unable to turn away.

I was afraid.

More so than ever, I was afraid.

Quickly I glanced at the dagger embedded in Skjor's chest.

The growl deepened as I had looked away from it. Vibrating around me.

I needed to defend myself.

Barely able, I slowly reached for my dagger.

The growl only grew deeper and louder the closer my hand got. Deeper and louder, louder and deeper. Until its volume was so loud it was deafening around me.

But I needed to defend myself from it. I knew I did.

The growl was now so loud it shook my body as my fingertips barely touched the hilt. The yellow eyes glared so sharply I could feel their hatred weighing me down.

I couldn't take my eyes off them. If I did, it'd devour me. I knew it would…

Just a little further.

My fingers grasped the cold hilt, desperately embracing it.

My heart skipped, like lightning the giant beast charged its white teeth toward me. And like lightning, its giant teeth of horror and white encircled me and snapped shut.

I never even screamed.

* * *

_Where am I!? What happened? It's dark! I can't breathe!_

I flinched in fright as I felt a hand on my shoulder. Ysolda? Why am I sitting up?

"It's okay..."

I couldn't breathe. I was in a cold sweat, and her hand felt warm against my skin. But it was so dark. Is it night? I'm in my bed, aren't I?

"I'm here. It was only a dream." Her voice was soft. Comforting. Calming.

My heart was hammering so hard I could feel it in my neck and ears, but at least I could breathe again. I let go of the fur blanket as I began to calm, I hadn't even realized I was clenching it. Something warm embraced me as I relaxed. A hug.

"It's okay. It was only a dream."

My eyes slowly adjusted to the dark as she let go of me, and I could make her out against the dark background of our bedroom.

"I… I'm fine."

I couldn't see her face in the dark. But by the way I felt her touching my arm, I knew she was still worried. That's how she was. Always had been. Worrying over me before herself.

She seemed hesitant, but then the blanket made a soft rustle as she pulled it back over herself and lay back down in the bed, tapping her hand on the bed beside her.

"...You don't get used to them?" She asked as I, too, lay back down beside her. It was an innocent question.

"They're… They're not the kind of dreams you get used to."

"Wanna talk about it?"

"I…" She always asked that. She knows what they are but… She's being nice. And there had been something different with this one. "They always start the same."

"Your brother?"

"Yeah… but… Skjor was in this one." I expected her to say something, but she didn't. Knowing what I was about to say, I already knew my voice would break- "In the dream I- I killed him." -and it did. "It's my fault, isn't it? And the others…" I had never broken down in front of her before, but my eyes had already watered up. And my voice began to fail me. I hadn't cried once in my adult life. It was unbefitting of a warrior, a Companion, and a man.

It felt pathetic.

"No, it's not. You can't blame yourself."

"The others must think the same. And Aela…"

"No one blames you. Least of all, them."

"She hasn't returned since…"

"It's not your fault."

"It's all because of me. He went alone because I was late. If I hadn't—"

"Stop it! Then I'm as much to blame as you are." She was sitting up now. She didn't sound angry. Or annoyed… She was telling. "And _you _don't blame me, do you?"

"…Well, of course not…" Why would I? At least her tone had stopped my tears.

"See. And the others don't blame you either. He's not the first Companion to die in battle, and he won't be the last. You're always worrying me with that. Now try and get some sleep. The funeral's tomorrow." I sighed, turning on my back as she lay her head on my shoulder when she finished.

It's strange how comfort works… Or doesn't. I knew she was right. But at the same time, I couldn't help but feel differently. Guilt doesn't respond to reason. But she was right.

"Do you know what to say?" She asked as she played her fingers on my chest.

"Yeah… Vilkas taught me the rites." They weren't that hard. All we had to do was repeat after Kodlak. "And… thank you." She's… how could I possibly keep sane without her?

"Always." I could feel her smile against my skin.

* * *

"Who will start?" Eorlund had prepared a funeral pyre in the Skyforge, resting atop its eternal flame.

Since ages past, Companions had been burned on the Skyforge upon death. And as the flames reduced their bodies to ashes, the winds would lift them to the sky. Where Kyne herself would carry one's soul to Shor's hall in Sovngarde. Where they would feast and do battle amongst their fallen friends and foes alike until the end of times.

But that wasn't where werewolves went… was it.

It was a beautiful day. No wind. Blue sky. Peaceful, really. But it was cold. Freezing even. The winters of Skyrim always came fast. It had rained when we buried my brother. Which made me a bit sad. I kind of wanted it to rain this time too, or, well… snow. It was far too cold for it to rain. I guess I liked cliches like that.

Everyone was dressed in black. Ysolda wore her funeral dress as she stood beside me. First time she had to use it. I would say _got_ to, but that just felt wrong. It wasn't only the Companions that were present, but Balgruf as well. And a whole crowd of other citizens, people both of importance and not. Everyone wanted to show their respect. Though I did get the feeling some people only came to get a glance at the Skyforge.

Funeral clothing for the Circle meant wearing the wolf armor without plating. Meaning, the fursuit only. It symbolized our vulnerability. How we would allow ourselves to be wounded by the grief and sorrow of his death. Of course, plating couldn't protect against such things… It was… symbolism. A kind gesture, out of respect. And honor.

The pyre was decorated with colorful flowers, painted wooden shields, and patterned rugs and blankets. I supposed Tilma's behind most of the decorations. That was more her area of expertise.

But there was no body.

"I'll do it," Kodlak answered as he stepped forward, grabbing the torch out of Eorlund's hand. "Before the ancient flame… We grieve."

"We grieve." Everyone present spoke in unison.

With no body, a collection of Skjor's belongings had been placed atop the pyre. Things like his sword and shield, mementos, clothes, and the like. All wrapped up in his red Companion cape. The one with Wuuthrad embroidered on it in gold. Every member of the Circle owned one like it.

It had been days. But Aela hadn't returned yet. I'm sure she was taking care of Skjor in her own way. But even if she had returned, to drag a werewolf into the city wouldn't be possible. Even if it was Skjor. The Circle being werewolves was a far too well-guarded secret. Even the other Companions were kept in the dark. Other than the Circle, I don't think anyone but Eorlund, Tilma, and Vignar knew.

I hadn't even told Ysolda.

"At this loss… We weep," Kodlak continued as he placed the torch against the pyre.

"We weep."

The walk back from that accursed place had been… long, to put it lightly. And I hadn't known what I felt at the time. Empty? Hollow? It had all been… so unreal. As if it hadn't happened. I knew it had. But, some part of my mind had yet to accept it. And so I had felt nothing. The real feelings came later.

I was so afraid of what to say when I had entered Jorrvaskr. But I guess my look gave it away. Kodlak had known even before I had fully entered. ¨Skjor's dead,¨ he had announced with monotone sadness. Said he saw it in my eyes. He always did have a talent for that. Reading people's eyes. The others had reacted, well, differently. Guess everyone handles grief in their own way. But Skjor was… _had been_ family, so no one was glad.

"For the sake of our fallen… We shout," Kodlak continued as he stepped back. The fire had quickly taken to the pyre, growing even larger as Eorlund pulled the handle to the bellows, feeding air into his Skyforge.

"We shout."

It hurt. Standing here. My father might have taught me how to hold a sword. But it was Skjor who had taught me how to wield it. Truthfully, Skjor had taught me everything I knew of fighting. He had always been a good teacher. But he was so strict. Disciplined. He always pointed out flaws and errors. Never satisfied. And with a clenched jaw, he would always shake his head in disappointment. No matter how hard I had tried. He always did value results over effort, even though one can't be achieved without the other.

For a some time. I resented him for that. I almost hated him at points. But I realized a long time ago that my hate and resentment for him was nothing more than how a stubborn child resented their parents. A child not knowing better, resenting his father for being strict. In truth, I looked up to him. Maybe even loved him. In my own way. He was so strong. Confident. Nothing ever touched him.

I've sparred with Vilkas more times than I could care to count, and I haven't won once. But at least with Vilkas, I could feel I was getting closer. My skill, approaching his. I never felt that with Skjor. Not once. No matter how many times I sparred him, I never stood a chance. He was truly on a whole different level than me. He didn't even seem to strategize as we sparred. As if muscle memory alone decided his next move. I wonder how many battles he had fought.

_¨Skjor has been a warrior for a long time. You would be wise to listen to him. Any warrior that gets to be old is either fearsome or a coward. _ _I'll let you find out which Skjor is.¨_

Kodlak had told me that. A long time ago when I was still a ¨whelp¨ and had sought him out to him to complain about Skjor. I was an idiot back then.

"And for ourselves… We take our leave." The flames reached high for the large stone statue leaning over the Skyforge. A statue of an eagle. Proudly spreading its feathered wings over and around the Skyforge, like a mother standing guard over the eggs in her nest. It had always been there, watching over the Skyforge.

"We take our leave."

Everyone lowered their heads for a minute of silence at the last rite. Recalling memories. Giving silent prayer. Whatever people did during a minute of silence.

I could feel the warmth of the fire against the front of my body, even through my clothes, as it almost burned against my lowered face. At least it wasn't freezing anymore.

Ysolda gently reached for my hand. I wasn't the type to show public affection, even something as small as holding hands. But it was nice.

When the minute was over, we lifted our heads. The pyre was gone. Engulfed by the flames and lifted to heaven. Only smoke remained above us, climbing toward the sky.

"His spirit is departed. Let us withdraw, to grieve our last together."


	28. Signed from...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello
> 
> Here's the next one.  
Not much else to say so hopefully I'll see you in two weeks.
> 
> Enjoy.

"Need a hand?"

I wasn't surprised he'd ask that-the piles of letters on my desk only seemed to grow. I had even tipped one over earlier today when my elbow got to close, as I reached for another jar of ink. Took me more time to clean up than I had patience. It wasn't that it was hard work, I just wasn't that fast of a writer... nor a good one. So Vilkas usually checked my grammar before I sealed the letters.

But I wasn't answering letters today. I was writing one of my own.

"No… I'm not working right now," I answered as Vilkas took a seat in the corner chair. "I'm writing a letter to my parents."

"Your parents?"

"Yeah." I dried the ink of my pen with a rough rag before I turned in my chair to face him. "Ysolda's going to visit them for a couple of days. She's leaving with the Khajiits in an hour."

"You're not going with her this time?"

"Naah. Not today. Said she wants to go alone. Has something to tell my mom, and doesn't want me there."

"What's that?"

Honestly, I had no idea. She had been teasingly secretive about her reason, but I figured it couldn't be anything bad. Lately, she had been humming more so than usual.

I felt I must have had as much confusion on my brows as there was confusion in my answer. "…Women stuff? I don't know."

"I see… So what are you writing?" Vilkas seemed to take my answer for honesty-good, because it was-and with his question unanswered, he moved on to the next as comfortably as any casual conversation could be expected to.

"Just letting them know how I am. And sending them some septims. Winter's never a good time for farmers, so Shor knows they need it." I had been doing this for years now, yet Vilkas would time and time again ask the same question. I knew him well enough now-it was something he did to ease the mood, something he did in order to twine his hidden questions into our dialogue.

"Aye…" He looked tired as he sat, twirling his thumbs. Nothing out of the ordinary… he always looked tired. "So… What did Kodlak want?"

_And there it was…_

He had looked as if he had a question on his lips the moment he set foot in my room. As I thought, he had been stalling with his questions. And here was the real reason behind his visit.

After Skjor's funeral, I had the decency to tell Vilkas everything. Everything about that accursed place-its horrid atmosphere of perverted torture and murder. And most of all, I had told him of the sickening persona behind it all: Krev.

Vilkas had listened, as he always does-patient attention following my lips. And I had spoken. And my conversation with Kodlak hadn't been that different, at least not the part where I spoke.

Kodlak's reaction had been quite the same-the difference in their expressions had been hair-thin, and the few reactions his body language spoke had been far too skillfully concealed for me to take notice. Yet, nonetheless, Vilkas now sought Kodlak's reaction to it as well.

"He-ehh… He wanted to talk about Skjor… And how it happened."

The weeks had moved slowly since Skjor's funeral, but the wounds were still fresh and the memories fresher. Skjor was a touchy subject and I knew he would be for a very long time. But some things need talking even if it's hard-especially if it's hard.

"And what did you tell him?"

"Everything… The Silver Hand. Aela. What we saw in that place. The corridor… Krev." Her name gave more than a bad taste in my mouth-as if speaking it was an insult to my tongue and my lungs rebelled by refusing me the breath needed to speak her name. It was more than enough to anger me.

I'd lie if I'd say she hadn't been on my mind for the last couple of weeks. It was all her fault. I knew that now. She was the one to blame. For everything. The torture chamber. All those werewolves… Skjor.

But beneath my aimed anger, she made me sick. That helmet hiding the feelings her body so easily portrayed. The joy in her voice as she teased us her actions. And that girlish laugh-as if it was all a sadistic game of pleasure for her. And me and Aela? We had been nothing more than the toys in her little box. She wasn't human. She couldn't be.

How long had she been at it? How many had suffered because of her? I could have ended her right there. I should have. But at that moment, something held me back. She had gotten under my skin. Made me hesitate. Afraid… I hated to admit it, but I had feared her. And I no longer knew if that fear had been my own, or my wolf's. Perhaps both.

"And what did he say?" His eyes were serious, yet with a hint of anticipation as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

"You know how he is," I said before inhaling. "He mostly listened. And understood. Like he always does."

"Aye."

"I know he's the _wise _sort, but… sometimes it annoys me how… _unaffected _he can be. As if it's all _¨within the turning of the tides._¨" I gestured with one hand as I impersonated Kodlak's calm old voice and quoted him. Or, well… said something I felt Kodlak could say. At least it gave Vilkas a silent laugh as he started smiling.

"He's an old warrior," Vilkas started. "And he conquered his feelings a long time ago. Just because he doesn't show it, doesn't mean he's not grieved."

I knew that. As Vilkas said, Kodlak might not show it, but he had told me,¨_Your heart is full of grief, and my own weeps at the loss of Skjor.¨_ And that, I could believe.

"Yeah I know. I didn't mean it like that, but-"

"I know what you mean…" Vilkas interrupted. "Did you know Kodlak's the one who found Skjor?"

I hadn't. Skjor had never spoken of his past, even when asked. And _when _asked, he'd just… stare you down until you left. "No, I didn't."

"Some twenty years ago. Supposedly found him in High Rock. The way Kodlak told it, he saved Skjor from some spoiled noble there. With a barrel of wine for a belly." Vilkas made a face of resentment as he mentioned the noble. He had never respected the comfortable. "But he did make it sound as if, in truth, it was the noble he saved-by taking Skjor."

Yes. That sounded more like Skjor. I couldn't imagine him working for some spoiled ¨milk-drinker¨ without getting the urge to ¨make his opinion heard.¨ He never had the temper for it. And I doubt he had more of it in his younger days. Younger days?...

"...Some twenty years ago? So you were-"

"Six… Seven? I had just started to hold a sword."

"...How was he? Back then?" I hadn't realized how little I really knew about Skjor. I knew who he was, but I had no idea who he had been.

Vilkas gave me a look before he drew air, leaning back as he drew his hand over his face, rubbing his closed eyes as he recalled memories. "Angrier? He shouted a lot, and his face always turned red when he did. I don't remember that much. Only that I was… afraid of him."

"Ha!" I couldn't help but laugh at the slightly embarrassed smile that had taken form on Vilkas's lips. "I can imagine that. It does sound like Skjor."

I had always known Skjor to be the angry type. But he had never shouted or yelled at me, or anyone else, for as long as I had known him. Neither had I ever seen his face turn red. Seems with age, he had channeled his anger into disappointment. Perhaps I'd prefer if he had yelled at me every now and then. But now he never would...

"Aye… Anyway. What else did Kodlak ask?" Vilkas asked after our shared smiles settled.

"Yeah." It took merely a moment to return to my thoughts of the conversation. "He wanted to know if I had heard from Aela."

"And?"

"I haven't… He seems to think she'll contact me when she learns something."

"I'd think she'd come for all of us? Why would…" Vilkas pinched his lower lip. "But Kodlak does have a way of knowing us better than we know ourselves." Again, Vilkas leaned forward. His silver-blue eyes set on me as if he was trying to read my answer before he even asked. "If she does… What will you do?"

I blinked at his question. I knew the answer. I knew exactly what I'd do would Aela call for me. And the thought of it had made me clench my jaw in deep-yet controlled-hate. The sort of hate that slowed one's heartbeats. Krev...

"...I'll avenge Skjor. I'll find her. And I'll avenge him for what she did."

"Aye… I was afraid of that." He looked as serious as ever.

"She deserves it, Vilkas. I told you what we found. What she did! You know she deserves it."

"I'm not against avenging Skjor. It's the look in your eyes I'm afraid of…" My eyes? Had they turned yellow? No, I would have felt my wolf awoken. This anger was my own. "Vengeance sought by hate isn't the right way. You won't hon-"

"Tss!" I interrupted. That statement had already been given to me once today, and I didn't need to hear it again. "Kodlak already gave me the lecture, I don't need yours."

It was hard to tell if his eyes held concern or judgment, but they wouldn't turn away as his lips began to move. "…He's not wrong. The wolf feeds on anger, and he can't be trusted-"

"I know! No need to remind me every time. As I said, Kodlak already did." Vilkas had a stern look as he sighed with a now hard mouth, which only made me sigh equally as hard. I hadn't meant to snap. "I know… ¨Focus on the calm in battle. Control the rage, lest it controls you.¨ I know." Yet another piece of Kodlak's wisdom.

"I'm just afraid you'll… She killed Skjor, and…" Vilkas rarely ¨lost his tongue,¨ but for some reason, he was squirming. "Well… You're like a brother to me. And I'd hate to see something happen to you."

I hadn't expected that. He had never said those words to me before. ¨Like a brother to me.¨ So that's why he had squirmed? Except for Ria, us Companions rarely spoke of our ¨softer¨ emotions. Guess Skjor had placed death on everyone's minds. Made them think of others than themselves for once. But with a sigh I realized, truth be told, I felt the same. Over the last couple of years, Vilkas had become more than a friend to me.

"You too, Vilkas…" Admitting that, made me calmer. But my mind was still set. "I will avenge him, Vilkas. There's no talking me out of it."

"Aye… Just be careful when you do."

I'm not stupid. I know she's dangerous-I was there. Only more of a reason she had to be stopped.

But there was something from my conversation with Kodlak that lingered with confusion on my mind: _Take heed, youngling. There's more than your wolf resting behind your eyes-an ancient flame that precedes our time and age. Even I do not know it's potential… You should do well not to wake it._

Repeating Kodlak's words, I turned my head to Vilkas and asked, "What do you think he meant by that?"

Vilkas pondered the question as he tried to interpret Kodlak's sentence-sentences that always needed interpretation. "Hm. I don't know… But Kodlak has a way of answering questions you've yet to ask."

¨Kodlak has a way.¨ He always does, does he not? A repeated statement I've long since grown tired of. Why is it his answers only offer more questions? Why is it he refuses clarity to his words? And now Vilkas did the same.

"And what do _you _mean by that?"

Vilkas turned his eyes toward me as his fingers left his lips. "I suppose you'll know your answer when the question presents itself."

More riddles-a cryptic answer that made me believe he had none. "Now _you're _starting to sound like him."

"Ha! Well, the Companions have been mine and Farkas's family for as long as I can remember. And Kodlak's the closest thing I have to a father. I guess he's rubbed off on me more than I thought… I don't mean to confuse you."

"It's not confusing… just frustrating."

"Aye, I'm sure I've heard Skjor tell Kodlak the same thing." He smiled as he said it, surely meant as comfort, yet it brought none.

"Yeah…" A heavy sigh as the mention of Skjor's name again brought melancholy to my mind, seemingly shared as Vilkas too now fell silent. It demanded a change in subject. "So you're leaving tomorrow as well?"

A nod before he answered. "Aye… Kodlak's leaving for Winterhold. Asked me to join him."

"What's the contract?"

"No contract. We're going to see the college library there."

"Library-eey. You always did like history. I take it you'll be right at home then."

"It's my first time going there. But aye, I am looking forward to it. Never cared much for magic, but history, lores, and legends? That kind of knowledge can serve even warriors like us."

"I suppose."

"Learning of the past serves well in shaping the future. And as Companions-a remaining legacy of Ysgrammor-it is our past that defines our present and shapes our future. Our existence has always been rooted in tradition. It's what separates us from simple mercenaries and sellswords."

Here we go again… Does he even realize how he sounds every now and then? Well, at least he only holds a fraction of Kodlak's cryptic mentality. But he's not wrong-Vilkas rarely is-but there are easier ways to shape those words.

Vilkas drew a surrendering smile over his lips and rolled his eyes at me. I must have made a face at my thoughts. "Anyway, I've taken enough of your time. Ysolda must be waiting. Can I walk with you? I'd like to wish her a safe journey as well."

Shit, I hadn't noticed how much of the candle had burned. I still had time, but I should get going.

"…Yes. Only need to sign the letter and we'll be off."

The watery black ink gave way as the tip of my pen entered the jar, sipping at the liquid within. Moving toward my letter, yet another black dot took form on my desk, making its home as it dried amongst the others.

I always felt silly signing my letters ¨_from your beloved son.¨ _I only did it to please my mother-that signature alone brought her more warmth than the bag of septims that followed. But silly as it felt, at least I knew it to be true.

"Done. Let's walk."


	29. ...your beloved...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay.  
I got busier than I thought I would over the holidays, so I didn't get it done in time.  
But here it finally is!
> 
> I'll try and get the next one done till next Friday (jan. 3) as to get back on my schedule.  
But with new-year coming up, well, I have plans.  
So it might be a bit delayed as well.
> 
> That said.  
Enjoy

If it wasn't nightmares waking me, it was a full bladder--nature's most reliable alarm clock.

Surprising how fast one adjusts to waking up in an empty bed-felt a bit colder than usual, but I wasn't about to complain-the extra legroom offered freedom I'd gladly get used to once again.

No need to climb over sleeping limbs today either… not that there ever was. Ysolda was usually the one to ¨ring the morning bell¨ with soft lips against my cheek or nagging words against my ears. I never did know which she'd choose, it always did come at random.

It was cold, almost freezing when I pulled off the covers and climbed out of the bed. I'd set a fire but, as usual, I was heading for Jorrvaskr. And since Ysolda was still in Rorikstead, there was no need to warm the place for the day.

The privy was barely full before I decided to move for my morning ¨rituals¨, something Ysolda reminded me to do more so than me: hair, shave, release wrinkles on my clothing, and so on. The usual grooming. But I never did care much for my clothes, as long as they were comfortable and easy to move in I'd rarely care how worn or dirty they looked. Simple pants and my old tunic will do-always did-and they fit well beneath the wolf-fursuit. I always left the armor plating on my mannequin in Jorrvask.

A wall of winter-white light shone against my eyes as I opened our door to leave. I hadn't realized it was this light already since it had been a while since I got to sleep. The morning air was fresh and cool as I inhaled. I liked the feeling of winter, it bore little scents-other than ¨clean and white¨-and it _always_ cleared one's mind. There were no clouds, but it must have been snowing all night, judging by the waist-deep snow carpeting roofs and ground alike. Good thing our roof hung out from the building, or it wouldn't have been easy to get the door open.

A streak of yellow splashed in the morning-snow as I emptied my pot beside our door-nothing a few kicks of snow wouldn't cover-before I left the pot inside our door and reached for my Companion cape and gloves.

"Guess I'll be late," I mumbled as I buttoned the cape around my shoulders before I grabbed the shovel and dug into the snow, shovel after shovel. It was light, but I'd have to dig through a few paces to reach the street. "And here I thought I'd be early."

The narrow paths of trampled snow made the already small streets between the old wooden stock houses seem even smaller as I walked. I could hear voices and chatter from inside the buildings, the people of Whiterun had clearly started their days as well. People were already shoveling snow off their porch and lifted their heads at me as I walked past.

The marketplace was crowded. People in fur coats and thick clothing everywhere, waving their gloved hands at the food stands for attention as they shouted over each other. Fresh food was scarce in winter and people would fight over frozen meat and rockhard oat bread, only good to eat when soaked in soup. Other than potatoes, vegetables were only found in Dragonsreach-cooked and served on the Jarl's rich table. Jarl Baalgruf did care for his people, more than some jarls, but as long as his people weren't starving he saw no need to share the content of his storage. Most people didn't complain, after all, he **is **the Jarl. That title came with more than respect alone, it came with trust, and everyone knew he'd step up if it came to it.

"Hail Companion…"

"Hail Companion…"

"Hail Companion."

I had gotten used to the greetings from townsfolk and guards alike. Ever since I became a member of the Circle, it was hard to walk outside without everyone greeting me with politeness. Some of us tried to spend most of our time in Jorrvaskr in order to avoid just that, but I didn't mind it. In fact, I liked it. It made me feel important.

People always showed respect towards nobles and highborns, but that was mostly because they had to. Us Companions, we weren't born with it. We had earned our respect. And inherited role of birth mattered little to us. We respected strength and strength alone. So unlike the nobles, the respect and smiles we were given always felt genuine.

"On your way to Jorrvaskr?" Anoriath interrupted as I walked by his stall. His large fur hood lay heavy on his head and hung down over his shoulders, covering his pointy elf-ears and auburn hair. His breath left frost in his beard as he spoke. Furs hung from the overhead of his stand and the counter had all kinds of cut meat on top of it. I always reacted to how little frozen meat smells compared to fresh ones.

When I still lived in Rorikstead, so long ago, he was our only competition when it came to selling furs and meat from our hunting. My father often spoke ill of him-the way competitors usually do-but after moving to Whiterun, I found him to be quite the nice guy.

"Yeah." As if I was headed anywhere else.

"Thought so. I put some meat aside for Tilma, but she hasn't come by yet." He reached for a rough spun sack behind his stall and pulled it up and placed it on a clear area of the counter. It looked heavy. "Thought you might take it instead, since you're heading there."

"Sure, but… I don't have any coin with me."

"Don't mind that. You can pay me later."

"Alright," I answered as I accepted the sack and pulled it over my shoulder. "What do we owe?"

"20 septims will do."

¨That…¨ sounded cheap. But I wasn't one to turn down a good prize. "I'll come by with it later."

He gave me a smiling nod before he turned for some other customers, who seemed annoyed that I had gotten to ¨cut in line.¨

The stairs leading to the Wind District were frozen and icy to walk on. Good thing I happened upon Anoriath-Tilma wouldn't have handled these stairs easily, even less so with the sack of meat.

I could hear Heimskr shouting prayers to Talos even before I had reached the top of the stairs. Does he ever do anything else?

High piles of shoveled snow covered the edges of the walk-path circling the dead tree that stood in the middle of the opening above the stairs. The symbol of the Wind District. Sometimes pilgrims would show up only to take a look at the tree and then journey back home. I never cared to figure out why. What's so special about a dead tree?

Other than Heimskr, a small crowd listening to his prayers, and a few guards, there wasn't much life in the Wind District. There were no stores here, no taverns or stalls. The Wind District was home to the more ¨noble¨ folks of Whiterun, and by ¨noble,¨ I meant rich. The streets were wide and all the lived-in houses were two-floored, decorated, and had their own backyards.

But there were no crowds on the streets. Only people with purpose walked here, people that lived here, or people that intended to visit The Temple of Kynareth or the Hall of the Dead, to pay their respect. And of course, one needed to walk through here to reach the Cloud District, where the Jarl lived. But even fewer climbed those stairs.

Heimskr raised his voice and lifted his arms towards me as I approached to walk past. Surely to draw my attention. I gave him a nod, as usual, before my eyes set on the giant statue of Talos behind him. The statue, as tall as a building, depicted a man wearing old chainmail armor, an old-style helmet with ¨winged ears,¨ and a large cape over his shoulders and back that hung all the way to the ground. He stood victorious over a large serpent pierced by his sword. He looked more like a hero of old than a god.

I never cared much for the gods. But Talos was one I could see myself get behind. He was a warrior-god. Supposedly Tiber Septim himself, given godhood by the others after he had conquered all of Tamriel eons ago. A man made god. I didn't like history much, it never interested me, but stories like his did have their charm. Myths and legends of old. Like Ysmir and Ysgrammor. All true warriors made their stamp on history to the point that it became legend and myth. Hard to tell what was true and not. But the point remained: even after history forgot them, they remained, passed down in myth.

Was it really possible for a man to become a god? Imagine that… Heimskr surely liked to remind us of it.

The stairs to Jorrvaskr were shoveled, and the way leading to the Skyforge, but not much else.

"I'm here."

The others were eating breakfast already. Most of the chairs were empty, Kodlak and Vilkas left for Winterhold yesterday and Aela was still missing-if one could call it that-but it had been over a month since we last saw her. Farkas's cair was empty as well.

"About time," Torvar greeted me from his seat, mead in hand.

"I brought lunch," I said as I walked up to the table and placed the sack of meat by the stewpot.

"Saves me the trouble, thank you, dear," Tilma said, a wrinkled smile on her face as I looked at her.

"Anoriath said you hadn't been to the market yet?"

"Hurt my foot on the stairs, I did. Couldn't really go to the market then, could I? With even more stairs to walk."

"You okay?"

"Oh I'll go see the priestess of Kynareth later, she's a good healer," she said with a smile.

I gave her a look over as I walked to my seat. She didn't look to be in pain. "Yeah, you do that. Where's Farkas?" I asked as I took my seat.

"He went with Kodlak and Vilkas," Athis answered.

"What?"

"You know how he is," Njada pitted in. "¨I go where my brother goes,¨" She mimicked his voice. Farkas's graveled voice with a feminine tone was enough to make most of us laugh.

"I go where my brother goes, eh," I repeated to myself as I reached for bread and butter.

"What are you smiling at?" Ria said with a happy tone as I had finished making myself a sandwich and was pouring myself a mug of mead. I hadn't realized I was smiling.

"I…" I looked up at her across the table. "I was just trying to imagine Farkas in a library." Now I knew I was smiling, as that picture caused everyone at the table to laugh.

"Ha! He'd be in agony," Athis said.

"Right! And how long you think till he'd start breaking stuff?" Torvar laughed.

"Breaking stuff? I think he'd just sit there, like a lost child waiting to be rescued," Ria laughed after him.

"Now don't speak ill of Farkas," Tilma interrupted with a smile. Her words carried little weight as she too had been laughing. "Now, the porridge is done, so please pass it along as I'd rather not walk around the table." With that said she handed a plate of porridge-to pass along-to Ria who was closest before she reached for another plate to make another serving.

The courtyard doors opened behind me as I got my plate and Vignar and Brill entered, followed by a cold gush of air and snowflakes.

"Tilma! Is the breakfast ready yet?" Vignar asked as he walked to his seat, Brill closing the doors behind him.

"Right on time. How was the tea?" Vignar always had his morning tea in the courtyard before breakfast.

"Too sour."

"There's nothing sour in mint-tea," Tima said.

"Don't mind him, the tea was fine, as always," Brill assured Tilma as he too took his seat. "Your taste buds are off, old man! Like much else with you," he continued with a voice loud enough for Vignar to hear.

"Huff! You should learn to pay your elders some respect!"

"Absolutely. Now should I soak your bread as usual, or are your teeth no longer ¨to soft to chew with?¨"

"Humbug! I'll have you know, back in _my _day us Companions used-"

"Let's just enjoy breakfast shall we?" Tilma thankfully interrupted before there'd be no end to it. "Before it gets cold." Vignar was usually not this grumpy, but some days he was more ¨sour¨ than others. Like his ¨tea,¨ I guess.

Brill gladly took the plate from her hands and handed it to Vignar.

"So…" I began as we all had gotten our foon. "…what's on today's agenda?"

"We're leaving for a contract," Njada answered. "Some bandits between Helgen and Falkreach decided to blockade the road and rob merchants and caravans."

"Falkreach? Those are Aela's contracts." She couldn't have passed it down to Njada.

"Aela's not here. That doesn't mean her requests letters ceased to arrive."

"You went through her mail?" I couldn't argue with her reasoning. But still, going through someone's mail without their permission? Even if it was for work, I felt it was… impolite.

"Stopping bandits is what we do. They won't stop robbing people because we ¨take a break.¨ And we still need to get paid." Her eyes were serious. And again, I couldn't argue with her reasoning.

"No, you're right." ¨Take a break,¨ eh. That's putting it mildly. "So who's _we_?"

"I'm going with her," Athis answered before Njada could.

"Well if all the buzzkills are leaving, we might just get to have some fun around here?" Torvar interrupted.

"There's still work to be done here," I told Torvar before continuing with Njada. "And when are you leaving?"

"After breakfast. The sooner we leave, the sooner we get paid."

"Right."

"Sugar, please," Ria asked. I could see why-the porridge tasted as bland as it smelled, oat and water. Guess we're out of milk again. At least there's butter, I never liked to sweeten things.

"And what are you up to?" Athis asked me, passing the sugar to Ria.

"It's breakfast! You don't need a third mug of mead!" Njada lectured Torvar over the question.

"I'm heading off to help Eorlund later," I answered Athis's question. Torvar answered something to Njada as well, didn't pay attention to what. "Though I thought I'd get some training done before that," I continued as I pushed away my empty plate.

"Training! Ha!" Vignar interrupted. "Have you seen the courtyard?"

"...What's wrong with the court-oh no." That's right, it had been snowing all night.

"What a sight it was. Enjoying my morning tea surrounded by walls of white. Looks like shovels'll be your weapons today. " It was clear he was enjoying himself. He always did find it enjoyable to watch the younger generation do basic labor.

"Guess there's no way around it. Who's up for some shoveling?"

"Afraid not, Athis and I need to get packing."

"Ria?"

"Would you like some help getting to the healer, Tilma?" Ria asked, ignoring my look.

"That would be lovely, dear."

"Oh no! You're not getting away from this one!" I said as Ria tried to hide her smile in her palm. "Brill, help Tilma to the temple."

"Sure."

"Guess it's me, Ria, and Torvar then."

"I already shoveled the stairs _and_ the way to the Skyforge," Torvar instantly complained.

"Good, then you've already warmed up."

"But!-"

"No buts! You're acting like children! You and Ria both!"

"I'm going to help, aren't I!" Ria defended herself.

"After you tried to slither out of it. Now let's go."

"Right, right. Just let me head down for some warmer clothes," Torvar complained as he rose to turn for the stairs.

"Don't take too long," I said after him.

Vignar wasn't kidding. Not only was the entire backyard covered in waist-deep snow, but snow had also fallen off the roof, creating a high wall of white surrounding the deck behind Jorrvaskr.

"Let's get started then," I said with a sigh as I handed Ria a shovel.

"Think we'll be done before noon?"

"I doubt it," I answered as I detached my cape and folded it over one of the chairs before grabbing a shovel for myself.

Like at home, the snow wasn't heavy. But the courtyard was a lot larger than the porch at home. This would take a long while.

"Let's put the snow against the walls, might as well insulate the building a bit."

"Yes, boss," she said as she got to work. There was a bit of a tone in her voice, she didn't sound as cheerful as she usually does.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing…" she said as she shoveled. But I had barely begun to help before she continued, "...It's just. You've always been a bit uptight, but lately you've begun bossing people around, telling them what to do."

"No, I don't."

"See. You say that, but I don't really think you believe it."

"Is this about Torvar? If he had his way, we'd all be drinking all day, and nothing would ever get done."

"It's not just Torvar, but me, Njada, and Athis as well. Even Brill, who isn't even a Companion. These days you only treat the Circle members as equals."

"Just because I'm a member of the Circle doesn't mean I'm above you others. There are no ranks in Jorrvaskr."

"Again, you say that. But you don't act like it. You're getting like Skjor, but even he put the contracts on the wall-rather than hand them to people and tell them to do it." I didn't like her mentioning Skjor in such a condescending way, even though I was the one her condescendence was aimed at.

"Don't speak ill of Skjor."

"I'm not, not really. But _he's _always been that way, so it's different. But you, you're changing. And I don't like it." A part of me saw what she was getting at, there has been a lot on my mind lately and maybe it had affected me. But our conversation right now felt a bit uncomfortable.

"Ria I… Maybe you're right. After Skjor… Maybe I have been distracting myself with work a bit too much and it got in over my head." Truth be told, I did have the habit of pushing my feelings aside.

I tightened my grip on the shovel as I pushed it into the snow, I didn't feel like looking at Ria right now, I could feel her sympathetic look dig into my back.

"We all miss him," she said after a while.

"I know."

"And I don't think you're handling it that well. Ignoring it doesn't help." She was getting annoying again.

"I'm not ignoring it. I know he's gone."

"I'm just saying you should talk about it. The others aren't that good at listening, but you can always speak with me." Really annoying. I know she means well, but I needed to handle it my own way-and right now, that was by avenging him.

"I'm fine! Now, by Ysgrammor, where's Torvar? He should be here by now." I threw the shovel into the snow and turned for the door. I came out to train, not shovel snow and talk about my feelings.

I tore the door open with more strength than I had intended, and shut it behind me with even more.

Werewolves… how quick we were to anger.


	30. ...Krev

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, it's not Friday yet, but I'm still trying to get back to my original schedule.   
Which means I'll have to try and get the next chapter done till next Friday.
> 
> This chapter turned out longer than expected because of the 'trick' I did with the titles, so I couldn't cut it in two.  
But I honestly don't think that's a bad thing.  
I also found out that for some reason my double dashes turn into a single dash when I put it on FFN.  
I'll fix that once I figure out how... Just live with it for a while.
> 
> And thanks for the comments lately!  
I forgot to say thanks in my last chapter so I'll say it now.  
I'm always glad to hear what you think and how you like my story.  
I always look forward to reading them :)
> 
> So, enough talking from me.  
Left a few more notes at the end, don't want to spoil anything.  
Hope you like this one :)  
Enjoy!

"You're drinking?!" Of course I'd find Torvar in the basement with a barrel of mead-why was I even surprised? As if Ria hadn't annoyed me enough? "Didn't I tell you to help with the courtyard?!"

"Relaax… I only needed something to warm my belly before I headed out." Of course, he'd refuse to look at me, trying to hide his drunken eyes. As if the smell of alcohol could escape my nose.

"Get your coat and get out!"

"You don't tell me what to do." The audacity, that he had the nerve to bring his mug to his lips again. "You know? You got awfully boring after you got married."

The bench flipped before I realized I had kicked it, mead spilling over his face as he landed flat on his back on the stone floor.

"What's!-- What's up with you?!" He coughed as he nearly choked on his mead.

"Everyone here earns their keep! If you want to drink, fine! But, by Ysmir, at least work for your mead before you do!"

"I told you!" He started as he rose from the floor to face me, wiping mead out of his beard with his sleeve. "I already shoveled the stairs _AND _the path to the Skyforge!"

"And I dug myself out of my own house! You don't see me complaining!"

"I don't see how that's my problem." Did he intentionally try to fuel the anger that already had taken its grip inside of me?

"Why you-- You know what?! I have a boring contract from Ivarstead! And, by Shor, don't test me! I'll have you hunt bears for a week! At least you'll be out of my mind long enough not to annoy me! Now get out in the courtyard and help!"

"Fine by me! Heard there are some fine women in Ivarstead!" That smirk. Ysmir's mercy for what I'll do. I could feel the anger race to my face. If the useless waste of air wouldn't do as told, I might as well force him.

My teeth were clenched against my will and my ears heated as I took a step forward and reached for his collar.

Drunk or not, Torvar was quick as he evaded my grab. "Is it a fight you want?! I've been here longer than you!" Seriously? I only felt my anger grow stronger--he'll lift his fists against _me_?

He threw a fist the moment I, again, invaded his personal space. His fist went past my head as I evaded--the second fist already incoming. A quick movement and I grabbed his wrist, twisting it so his body went past me with the movement. I grabbed him by the neck of his shirt as he went past and jerked him back as I kicked against the back of his feet, sweeping him off the floor. He landed hard on his back--grunting by the impact.

How slow humans were once I allowed myself focus--even when angered.

"By oblivion, what's wrong with you!" He shouted--still on the floor--as I grabbed him by the front of his collar, and began to drag him across the basement floor toward the stairs. "Let me go you lunatic!"

"What are you looking at!" I snapped at Njada and Athis, who stood in the opening to their champers, looking at the ruckus taking place in the hall.

"Nothing…" Njada responded, giving Athis a quick, yet discreet, bump in his shoulder with her fist. "We should continue packing."

I could hear Athis mumble ¨By Asura¨ under his breath as they turned to retreat into the chamber. I didn't care for it as I dragged Torvar past the door.

I ignored Torvar's cursing behind me as I dragged him up the stairs--his hands jerking at my forearm and his feet struggling against the steps.

As we reached the mead-hall, Tilma, Vignar, and Brill all turned their heads toward us. Them too, I ignored as I dragged Torvar toward the courtyard door, still cursing as he struggled behind me.

"Now that's more like it!" Vignar shouted. "Makes me remember the good old days."

"Boys will be boys," Vilma slowly shook her head--though she did wear a smile on her face.

Again ignoring them, I pushed the door open with my free hand and pulled the swearing Torvar out into the courtyard and threw him in the first pile of snow I saw.

"What in Oblivion!" He shouted as he flew out of the snow pile. Ria watched as I grabbed my spade and threw it Torvar who, surprisingly, yet luckily, caught it in his hands.

"Now get to work!" I shouted at him.

I stared down his angered look as he slowly softened and finally, yet reluctantly, turned and pushed his spade into the snow and got to work. The way he shoved his spade into the snow and threw it aside clearly showed he was still pissed. Well, as long as he was working, I didn't care if he was pissed at me or not.

I turned to grab another spade for myself and as I did, I met Ria's eyes. She didn't look angry at me, but I could almost hear the words her eyes gave me: ¨I told you you've started to boss people around.¨

"Don't you start," I sharply replied as I grabbed a shovel to get to work. A slight smile spread across her cheeks, rosy from the frost, as she too turned to work, knowing her message had gotten through.

Except for Torvar mumbling curses, we worked in silence for a while. Though the silence was short-lived as Ria opened her mouth. "You should make Njada a Circle member."

Njada? Really? "You're calling me ¨uptight,¨ yet you want to make Njada a member of the Circle?" I asked, still a hint of annoyance in my voice.

"She deserves it," she continued. "You know what she did?"

"No?" I answered as I kept shoveling, not really paying attention to her.

"She's been working her ass off on _both _Aela's and Skjor's contracts." That got my attention. I lifted my head to look at her. "Since nobody else is," she added as she noted my look.

"What?" I asked. I already knew Njada had been going through Aela's contracts, but Skjor's as well? "And what made her think she--"

"It's not like that," Ria interrupted with a defend-Njada look. "Like she said this morning, the contracts won't do themselves." Again, not something I could argue against. Still, it annoyed me. "She's also been sending letters," she continued, "To Skjor's contacts, letting them know he's passed… that's why she went through his papers in the first place. To get their names."

That's surprising. I hadn't known she'd done any of all that. "That's… I thought Kodlak would do that."

"She beat him to it," she gave a half-smiling nod as she continued. "Guess even Kodlak didn't feel like entering Skjor's chambers for some time."

That's true. Kodlak and Skjor went _way _back. Kodlak rarely showed it, but one didn't need to give it any extra thought to realize Skjor's death had affected him more than he would let on--like some others here.

"That's… That's actually kinda kind of her."

"That's what I'm saying," Ria said with a hand gesture. "She's a strong warrior. And no one asked her to, yet she's taking responsibility. She'd make a good Circle member."

I scratched my neck in thought as I looked at Ria. She seemed serious, and she had made some good points. But even so. "That's not my call," I finally said as she waited in anticipation.

"I know. But at least you get a vote in it," she responded as she placed her hand on her hip. "Just take it up with Kodlak, I'm sure he'll listen."

I sighed as I reached for my shovel again. She seemed awfully insistent on this. Had Njada put her up to it? To try and convince me to… No. Njada was the opposite of the kind of woman who'd have others speak on her behalf. She'd probably get pissed if she ever learned Ria had recommended her. "I'll mention it to Kodlak if I get the chance," I answered as I turned to continue shoveling.

"And… one more thing."

_What now?_ I thought as I again turned to look at her.

"I'm sorry for pushing your buttons earlier." She gave a nod toward Torvar, out of earshot as he was shoveling with his back toward us halfway across the courtyard. "I didn't mean to anger you."

I knew what that nod meant. How annoying she could be. But like so many others lately, she wasn't wrong. Torvar always did have a taste for alcohol, but he rarely got drunk before noon. And when I had confronted him he hadn't sounded as cheerful as he usually does, he has never been the ¨sad drunk.¨ And when we had begun fighting--if one could call it that--he had actually sounded pissed at me. It was unlike him. He always fought with a smile, especially with other Companions. In fact, usually the more pissed his opponents were, the wider smile he'd wear.

With a sigh, I straightened my back and turned to look at him--shoveling away. As told.

The word 'lazy' could often be heard when we spoke of him behind his back. But truth be told, he wasn't. After all, he _had _shoveled the entire front of Jorrvaskr by himself even before breakfast, _and _the path to the Skyforge. That's almost as large as the courtyard.

He was just… carefree, jolly, a happy-go-around, and liked to get drunk every now and then. Had he sought out to become a bard, he would have been revered. But in a hall of warriors, it was hard to take a man like that seriously. Some here even called him weak at times. I admit I myself sometimes thought of him as such, even if only in my mind. But again, truth be told, no Companion could ever be considered weak.

With all of that in my thoughts as I looked at him, I realized how blind I had been. How easy it is to judge when one doesn't understand. When one doesn't even try to understand.

He had been a Companion longer than me. Knew Skjor for longer. Now that I think of it, I only remember seeing Skjor smile during one of Torvar's lady stories--even if it was a hidden smile at that. How blind I was… stupid even.

In his own way, he _too _was grieving.

"Torvar!" I shouted across the courtyard.

"What you want?" He responded with a dull voice, still shoveling away.

"I'm…" I never was any good with apologies, Ria's look didn't help as I sucked in air and chewed slightly on the side of my tongue. "I'm sorry. I lost my temper."

"Whatever." As dull a voice as before. Frustrating. His response made me sigh with a clenched jaw and I rubbed my eyes. If I was bad at giving apologies, he was as bad at taking them.

"Listen, I-- Next interesting contract I get, I'll take you along to Riften. Okay?" I looked at him as he kept on shoveling, not giving an answer. At least his silence wasn't as condescending as his earlier responses. "And we can bring back a keg of Blackbriar?" That got his attention as he stopped shoveling, but he didn't turn toward us. He just stood there. I suddenly got the nervous feeling I had insulted him.

He turned toward us, wearing his usual smile. "Make that two and we have a deal." Now that's the man I knew. "And that contract better be good."

It was hard not to smile at him. "So we're fine?"

"We're fiine." He waved his hand through the air once, as if he slapped away the problem in front of him. "Besides, you're not the first one to put me to the floor--though the last one that did _was _naked."

"I'm sure he was." I couldn't help it. Ria's giggling beside me didn't help me keep a straight face, nor did Torvar's look.

"That's not… It wasn't…" He looked both ridiculed and dumbstruck, though with a smile.

"Yeah, yeah. Sure," I said as Ria began to laugh. "Now go inside and get your coat, you look cold."

"I'll do that," he answered as he stabbed his spade into the snow and headed for the door. "Back in a bit."

I looked over at Ria, still smiling, as he entered Jorrvaskr.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" She said with a smile.

"Guess not. He always was easy to make friends with."

I looked over the courtyard as I rubbed my hands together. Even with gloves, my fingers felt numb from the cold. Had I gotten to train today, I'd at least kept warm.

We had shoveled away most of the snow, but there was still plenty of work left. I hoped it won't snow again in a while, or all our work would've been for naught.

"Actually, would you mind if you and Torvar took care of the rest?" I asked.

"You're going to leave us to do the rest of the work?" Ria answered judgingly.

"Sorry, but I promised Eorlund to help today. And it's almost noon, so I'm already late."

She didn't seem too pleased as she looked at me--squinting eyes and sharp lips. "Go ahead," she finally said, "We'll take care of the rest."

_Reassuring enough_, I thought as I turned to head to the Skyforge. Guess she was a _little _right about me ¨bossing people around¨--even though I don't fully agree--and I didn't really like that.

"Oh yeah," I uttered as the thought hit me and I turned back to Ria--meeting me with raised eyebrows. "How would you like a bear extermination contract?" Her face answered my question before her lips did, as she slowly lit up with excitement. I almost started laughing at her expression. No way she'd say no.

What was this woman's obsession with bears anyway?

* * *

"You're late, boy," Earlund said as I walked up the stone steps to the Skyforge, though his voice was more telling than judging.

The Skyforge was glowing hot, as always, and Eorlund stacked iron shields beside it in two large stacks. It always surprised me how easily he handled heavy work. He was around the same age as Kodlak, yet age didn't seem to hold him back one bit. But then again, he had been a blacksmith his whole life, that kind of work tended to leave one strong.

The shields made a heavy sound as he placed those he held on the furthest away pile and turned toward me. He already had soot in his face from wiping away sweat with his even sootier hands, and his thick white hair that hung down to his chest had strands of soot in it as well--at least the front parts that had gotten to close to the forge.

As always, Eorlund worked shirtless. His arms and hands were muscular for a man his age, well, as muscular as you'd expect an aged master-blacksmith to be. But he did have an old man's skin--a wrinkled chest and stomach, leathery and hardened, by a lifetime of heat and work.

He wore his profession to the point his work and identity were one. His frame and soot-covered face and hands loudly said 'blacksmith.' Were you to meet him on the streets, not knowing who he was, you'd never question he was anything but. As he used to say: ¨I'm a blacksmith. Any half-wit could see that.¨

I unbuttoned my fursuit and put it on a barrel close by, no need to wear the double layer of wolf-fur when working next to a smoldering pit of molten metal and stone. Even in my short-sleeved tunic, it'd get more than hot. "Sorry I'm late, I got held up with the others and--"

"No need for an explanation, Boy. They're nothing but glorified excuses, and I don't care for excuses," he interrupted, with a hard forehead above his brow.

"Right…" I said as I approached the forge, "…so what's today's work?"

"Shield repairs," he answered, giving a nod to the two stacks of shields. "Seems the jarl's soldiers don't know how to block correctly. They're all cracked."

"The guards actually train?" I asked in humor.

"Not compared to you lot," he answered as he walked over to his forge and grabbed his gloves.

I looked over at the two stacks of shields and could already tell it was going to be a long day. There were easily more than twenty shields stacked on top of one another.

"There's no way we'll get this done today," I said.

"Why you think I asked you for help?" Eorlund answered all matter of factly, holding out an extra pair of heavy leather gloves for me. "So get to work."

"Right," I said as I switched to the heavier ones and walked over to the shields, placing two of them on the edge of the Skyforge to heat them up.

The glowing pool started bubbling as Eorlund pulled the bellow, and fire begun spewing out of the eyes and beak of the eagle statue above us--like a feathered demon with a burning core, fleeing its insides. The heat already burned hot against my skin. "So what was all that shouting about?" he asked as we waited for the shields to heat.

I didn't really feel like getting into it, but… "Nothing really… Ria lecturing me and Torvar being Torvar, I guess," I said as I grabbed one shield with two tongs and briefly dipped it into the forge.

"Always did have a mouth, those two. Torvar more so," he said.

"Actually, Ria was the one who did most of the talking today."

"Mhm… some people don't know work requires silence."

Finally, someone who got it. I always did get along well with Eorlund.

The shield I had dipped was already glowing red from the heat. I placed it on the anvil and held it in place with the tongs as Eorlund took his hammer to it. First, we needed to hammer together the crack, then it needed reheating for the crack to meld shut.

The sparks stung against my forearms as Eorlund struck the shield, making me grimace briefly as they burned my skin, yet Eorlund showed no reaction to the sparks that bounced off his naked chest. I figured his skin was used enough that he no longer felt them burn--or he simply ignored them out of habit.

I reheated it for a moment as the color in it had begun to turn yellow and again placed it back on the anvil for Eorlund to continue.

"This will take a while," I muttered to myself before turning my attention to Eorlund. "Why don't you equip the guards with Skyforge steel?" I asked. "Then you wouldn't have to work repairs on anything again."

"You daft boy? Then how would I get paid?" He answered, again all matter of factly, without taking his focus of the work. "And soldiers die all the time. Imagine bandits or the likes getting their hands on my steel." I agreed as I watched him work for a while. "No. Skyforge steel is for the Companions only, that's the way it have been since the time of my clan-fathers. And I'm not one to break our ancient traditions."

With that said, he gestured for me to reheat the shield. And again I dipped the shield in the forge as the crack had been hammered shut, melding it together, before I put it aside and reached for the next one. And once that one was done, the next one. And the next one. And so the hours went past. One slow shield at a time.

The sun had already begun to go down as we finally had finished the first stack of shields and darkness would be upon us in an hour or two. I had missed lunch long ago, but I might still be in time for dinner.

"We'll continue tomorrow," Eorlund said as he walked over to a pile of snow that was far away from the forge enough that it hadn't melted. "Always did prefer working the forge in winter," he said as he grabbed some snow to rub over his arms. "Easier to cool off."

True. But that didn't mean the summers were warm. Whiterun summers were odd like that--the sun got warm enough to melt away the snow, yet the winds could still bite as they blew over the tundra fields.

I looked at my own arms as I walked over to do the same. My skin was slightly scorched red from the heat, but at least they hadn't blistered. When I first started helping Eorlund, I always had blisters from the heat afterward. Guess my skin had toughened up over the years as well, though not like Eorlund's--his skin never reddened from the heat. At least my arm hair will grow back.

I looked up at the eagle statue, guarding over the Skyforge, as I rubbed my forearms. "I don't think I ever asked."

"What's that, boy?" Eorlund asked as I got his attention.

"Your ancestors been taking care of the forge since Whiterun was founded."

"Since the time of Ysgrammor, aye."

"So who built the Skyforge?"

He rubbed his beard for a moment before answering. "When I was a lad and trained under my grandfather, bless his soul, he told me the Skyforge have been here since the beginning of time." Still rubbing his beard he looked at the statue as well. "But were I to guess, I'd say the elves made it."

"The elves? Why do you think that?" I asked curiously as I looked at him.

"Because of that," he said, pointing at the statue.

"The eagle?"

"The elves were here long before man, and they prayed to some god of their own depicted as an eagle… Still do." I looked back at the statue for a moment. It was well made considering its supposed age. "Ever seen elven armor?"

"No."

"I can't deny their craftsmanship is good, but it's more decorative than practical. They have eagle heads and wings all over their armors to honor that god."

"So the elves built the Skyforge?" I asked, again looking at Eorlund.

"Well… my grandfather also told me the elves feared the forge. So maybe they didn't," he answered with a look.

"Feared it?" I asked slightly confused.

"Guess the easiest answer is; no one knows who built the forge. But what do I know? I'm just a blacksmith," he answered, turning away as he walked to a barrel he had placed his coat on and took it on. "If only my sons paid as much interest as you," he mumbled to himself before continuing, I took it as a compliment. "We'll continue tomorrow," he said as he gestured farewell and I too grabbed my fur-suit and prepared to leave.

Maybe there's still some dinner left, I'm starving.

* * *

The doors opened just as I was about to grab the handles and I was faced with Ria and Torvar wearing their traveling gear as the came out of Jorrvaskr.

"Where are you going?" I asked, slightly stunned at their sudden appearance.

"Ivarstead," Ria answered with a happy face.

"What?"

"You said I could take the bear contract, so I went through your papers and got it."

What's with everyone going through everyone's letters lately? "Yeah but… I didn't think you'd leave already? It's not far from dark."

"With the carriage, we'll get to Riverwood in a couple of hours," Torvar added.

"Couple of hours? You won't get there till midnight," I stated.

"So the sooner we leave the better. And we can get some shuteye in the carriage," he continued.

"And the sooner we leave, the faster we get to kill some bears," Ria added with a smile.

"The faster we get _paid_," Torvar corrected as he gave Ria a look. It was unlike him to care for payment, but I wasn't about to point that out.

Just _what_ is this woman's obsession with bears? Getting to kill bears seemed to be her equivalent of a child getting a birthday party. "Eeh… sure. Whatever," I fumbled for better words, but they were already dressed and set to leave so… "Any food left?"

"Tilma's cleaning the tables right now, so if you hurry," Ria said, moving aside and past me.

"I'll get a move on then. Have a safe trip," I said as they began descending the stairs to the Wind District.

"Absolutely," Torvar said with a wave over his shoulder.

I could smell the food as I entered Jorrvaskr, and hear Tilma clear off the tables--plates and cutlery scrambling as she placed them in a bucket of water.

"Am I too late?" I asked as I approached the tables.

"Since you've been working all day I left a plate for you, dear," Tilma answered, still cleaning the table. That was unlike her, she usually let latecomers starve.

"Thank you," I said as I took my seat and reached for the plate and a mug. "Stew?" I asked as I looked into my plate. "I thought you'd make steak, with all the meat I brought?"

"You know Farka's doesn't like stew, so why would I waste steak on you guys alone," she said kindly. "And stew uses less meat, we can't afford to be wasteful."

"Speaking of which," I started as I began to eat. "I need some money to pay Anoriath for the meat. Thought I'd go by on m way home."

"You'll have to ask Vilkas for that," she said as she took a wet rag out of the bucket to clean the tables.

"He won't be back for over a week. I don't think Anoriath'd like to wait that long,"

"Search his room then, he's the one who keeps our coin."

By Ysmir, I hated going through other people's stuff. The thought of it made me sigh in self-disappointment--for what choice did I have? "Guess I'll do that then," I said bitterly as I turned my attention to my food.

* * *

The training dummy Vilkas had by the foot of his bed gave me a slight scare as I entered his room, the dim light from my candle had made it seem as if someone was in his room as it fell on the humanoid shape in the dark. After a brief moment of inner cursing, I walked over to his corner table and lit the candles on it with my own. Still, the light didn't fully brighten the room and I didn't feel like lighting his chandelier, or the candles mounted on his wall, since my visit would be brief.

The soothing light revealed a bookshelf next to me and his bed in the corner, past the dummy. He had one section of his room covered off, by a thin wooden screen, that he used to change clothes more privately. I never knew why he had that. If he wanted privacy, all he had to do was close his door. In the last corner, past his door, was another table, a longer one, with two chairs. But I didn't see anything that I figured he'd keep our coin in.

_Now where could you keep our coin_, I wondered as I began going through his bookshelf and the pullout shelves in his table. But I found nothing. Perhaps the nightstand?

I placed my candle on his nightstand and opened the shelf. There was nothing in it other than a small book with a well-worn leather cover. I hated to pry, but curiosity got the better of me as I couldn't help but pick it up.

It didn't look like a regular book, it was far too thin and the leather cover had no title written on it--or anything else for that matter. And the leather smelled like pigskin--well-made books didn't use pigskin as covers. Had he made it himself? Could it be… a journal?

Again curiosity got the better of me, I almost didn't feel bad for going through his stuff anymore as I opened the book in the middle. I recognized his handwriting, it was a journal all right.

I placed it on the nightstand so the candlelight fell bright on the writing and began skimming through the open page. I got an uncomfortable knot in my stomach as I read on, and a sour taste in my mouth.

_I hear children's screams in my ears. Women crying in fear. Old men's prayers turning to panic and plead as the taste of blood fills my mouth. By Ysmir's beard, they sound like tortured animals! Pigs screaming in the night!  
It burns like fire under my skin. Scorching pain and suffering, fornicating inside the very marrow in my bones. I can't stand! I can't see! It tears for escape, claws like nails inside my eyes! Molten metal in my mouth and biting frostbite against my heels until they all meet inside of me!  
The guilt from the rush… They all die so easily. They never struggle. Forfeiting their lives the moment they lay eyes on me. I grow all warm inside as I chase them.  
I don't want to enjoy it… but I do.  
Every time I awake in cold sweat, I feel like a murderer again and again as I stare into his eyes, yellow judgment reminding me of what I've never done! For I am not to blame! I've done nothing of what he shows! He's the one to blame! He does it, through me. Doesn't he?_

If that was one single page, I didn't want to read the rest. I closed the book and hastily put it back in his nightstand. A dream-journal? Holding the brief memories of the wolf that he shows us in our sleep. I always forget my dreams shortly after I wake--and I figured the others did the same. But I knew Vilkas suffered them worse than others. Why would he want to write them down? Why would he _want_ to remember them?

_The wolf can't be trusted_. His words spoke in my mind. Was it a reminder for himself? A cruel self-inflicted mantra?

This is why I don't like going through other people's stuff, one always finds something one shouldn't. Best I forget about this. Vilkas wouldn't like knowing I found it.

I closed the nightstand and grabbed my candle as I pushed my thoughts aside. Yes… I better forget about this.

A drew a short breath as I tried to refocus on my purpose here: the septims. Not in any shelves. Then where? Under the bed?

I placed my candle on the floor in front of the nightstand and got down on all four to take a look. The dull-yellow carpet felt rough against my hands as I bent down and looked under the bed.

"Ah," I exhaled as I saw a tiny metal box under the bed, no bigger than a shoe-box.

I grabbed it with both my hands and pulled it out and rose. It looked heavier than it was, as I placed it on the nightstand. It had a padlock--of course it had a padlock. The key was probably lying around somewhere in the room, but I didn't have time to start ravaging through every possession he had--I had already found more than I asked for.

"Better not be Skyforge steel," I muttered as I drew my dagger from my belt to pry it open.

There was a scraping sound as I forced the tip of my dagger into the padlock and a loud metallic crack as I pried it open. "Well, it's not Skyforge steel," I muttered to myself as the padlock fell to the floor. But now I guess I owe Vilkas a new one. Well, so be it.

Is this all? I thought as I opened the box. Other than a blue gem Vilkas hadn't sold yet, there was barely 50 septims in the box. And I needed 20 of them. No wonder Vilkas always complains about the coin.

The others better get paid well for their contracts.

With a sigh, I took what I needed and put the box back under the bed, blew out the candles, and headed back with my own.

* * *

"Found what you needed?" Tilma asked as I came up from the basement. She was done with the tables and had now begun sweeping the floor.

"Sure did," I answered as I walked over to the table, blew out my candle, and placed it down on the clean table. "And now, I'm heading home." I reached for my gloves by my chair and turned to grab my cape. "Hopefully Anoriath is still at his stand, but I doubt it." Now where's that damn cape?

"There's always tomorrow, dear. I'm sure he won't mind" Tilma said as I looked around for my cape.

"There's always that…" I mumbled, bending over to look under the table.

"Lost something?" She suddenly said with curiosity as she watched me fumble on my knees almost under the table. This would be easier if I weren't so big.

"No I--" I hit my head on the table edge as I tried to get up. "By Ysmir!--" I cursed as I rose, rubbing the back of my head for the pounding pain. Tilma was only smiling at me as I looked at her, broom in hand. I felt pissed and ridiculous at the same time. I took a deep breath as I rubbed out the fading pain and cursed internally at myself before I looked back at her. "Have you seen my cape?" I asked. The sound of my voice did little to hide my annoyance.

"Not since this morning, dear," She answered as calmly as always.

"Well by Ysmir, it'll have to wait till tomorrow. I'm going home." With that, I headed for the door. Still annoyed by myself.

"I'm sure it will show up, sooner or later."

It had almost gotten dark outside as I exited. But the sky still had a yellow hue toward the sunset, slowly turning red. It'd be dark within the hour. The stairs were as slippery from the ice as they had been in the morning, and I walked slowly down as I began to hear Heimskr shouting the same prayers to Talos as he had been doing this morning. How did he have the energy for it?

I gave him a nod, as always, as I passed. And he returned my nod by preaching even higher, surely hoping I'd approach to listen. Something I never did.

The area around Gildergleam was empty of people, not even guards were present. But most people that didn't go home gathered at the tavern at this hour, guards included. To keep the peace, they'd say. But they usually drank as much as most others.

More icy stairs as I headed for the marketplace. Sure enough, there were people on the tavern balcony as well as the sounds of singing and music from the inside of it. There were still a few stalls open in the marketplace, trying to sell the last of their wares to the, now drunk, crowd. But I didn't see Anorath by his stall, I figured he had either gone home or to the tavern as well.

Guess I'll have to pay him tomorrow then.

The small streets were easier to walk now--the snow had been trampled down or shoveled aside over the day. There were lights in the windows as I passed the buildings, smells of dishwater and supper being prepared, and charcoal and smoke as people warmed their houses for the night. And as I moved on, my own house came into view--dark windows and cold chimney.

Maybe I should've slept in Jorrvaskr tonight? At least that place had been warmed over the day.

I took out my key from my pocket and put it in the cold lock, turned it, and opened my door.

The inside felt as cold as the outside, without the wind--not that there had been much of a wind today. It was dark, but I knew the place more than good enough to find my way to the fireplace.

I got down on my knees in front of the fireplace and reached for a log, and my dagger to scrape off some bark. It didn't take long until I had scraped off enough to have a small pile of it in the fireplace. I reached for the flint above the fireplace and brought it down to the dry bark, and scraped my knife against the flint to light the bark with the sparks that came. It always took a while, but eventually, I had a small fire going that I fed some twigs and the log I had scraped the bark off.

I rubbed some dust off my knees as I rose and grabbed the candle above the fireplace to light it with the growing fire. The place wasn't that dark anymore, and I could already feel it beginning to warm up, as I put the candle on the kitchen table and grabbed a bucket to get some snow.

The place had definitely gotten warmer as I opened the door and met the cold air. I heaved the bucket through the snow beside our door and brought it inside, placing it next to the fireplace to melt. I still hadn't gotten the time to wash my face after helping Eorlund earlier today--and I wasn't about to go to sleep with soot and sweat in my face.

I added another log to the crackling fire and took a seat at the table as I waited for the snow to melt. And for a while I did nothing but stare into the fire, slowly drumming my finger on the table as I waited. There wasn't much else to do since there was no one else here to talk to.

I had almost forgotten about Vilkas's dream-journal as my mind wandered with nothing but the crackling from the fire to listen to. But the realization I had forgotten, only made me remember it again.

Vilkas never made it a secret he didn't like being moon-born. But he _was_ moon-born. At some point, he had accepted the gift--or curse--from someone, willingly. It was afterward he had changed his mind. I wonder if that journal had something to do with it. I always forgot the dreams shortly after waking, being left with nothing but the horrid feelings they left behind and a sensation of sleep-deprivation. I wonder… If I too would remember my dreams? Remember what my wolf did when in control? Would I too change my mind?

_The wolf can't be trusted._ His words again spoke in my mind.

I sighed at the thought as I turned forward to face the table and look out the window, placing both my hands flat down on it. My right-hand landing on paper drew my attention from the window as I looked down.

A letter?

I don't remember leaving a letter here? It was blank as I picked it up and turned it over, nothing written on the back either. Had Ysolda left it here for me? And I'd missed it for days?

Confused, I searched my memory for any moment I could have seen it but missed it--but found nothing--as I opened the envelope and took out the paper inside. It was folded over, yet there was something written on the outside of it. I recognized it even before I folded it open and turned it the right way.

It was _my _letter. The one I had given Ysolda to give to my mother.

Had she left it behind? No, she couldn't have. I gave it to her right as she left with the khajiit.

Even more confused, I flipped the letter over only to be met with even more confusion. There was a drawing on the back and something else written.

It was a detailed drawing of a map, depicting Whiterun and the surrounding areas. And there was a black X placed on a spot just a bit north-west of the city, no more than two hours away. I looked down at the writing below the drawn map.

It was cursive. Beautifully so. The letters flowed, circled, and intertwined one to another to the point I couldn't believe the pen had ever left the paper. It was only two lines yet I couldn't even read it at first. I wasn't used to reading cursive, and even if I had been, this writing was the cursive _of _cursive.

It took me a while to make out the letters. But as I did, all my confusion was answered. And that answer made my throat clam shut as it took a cold grip around my heart, slowing my heartbeats as it began to squeeze. The air in the room felt heavy as the feeling of pressure pushed on my entire body, hindering me to breathe to the point my stomach coiled inside of me and my mind went blank.

_The moment I saw your ring, I knew we'd meet again._

_Signed from, your beloved, Krev._

Fear. Nothing but panicked fear spread inside of me, like a parasite--feeding on every other emotion until nothing but _it _remained.

My chair tipped over as I pushed myself up from the table, the letter dropping from my hands. Reason fled my body as I rushed to the door, tearing toward the exit to leave, knowing only the one thing everything inside of me so painfully pleaded for.

Ysolda.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been waiting a long time to get some Skyforge Lore in here :)  
And I really liked writing about Eorlund.
> 
> And I wonder how many of you noticed the foreshadowing in the ¨Krev the skinned¨chapter.  
When she saw his ring :)


	31. The only corpses to ever matter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go.  
I finished this chapter in time, last Friday, and uploaded it to FFN. But for some reason, I forgot about you guys here on AO3!  
So forgive me for making you wait a couple of days longer than them.
> 
> Enjoy!

The sky screamed red behind me as I rushed through the frozen streets—streets fighting my every step, countering with icy stones against the soles of my feet. Felt like a slippery slope, tearing my feet in every direction as I ran. I hardly realized it, but the repeating snow biting against my palms told me the streets were winning.

The sounds of the city were dead to me, washed away by the only sound that pounded in my ears—heartbeats, beating my eardrums with a rhythm of fear, the next beat more afraid than the last.

Focus was beyond me. This… this wasn't real. The only thing that told me I was still breathing was the cold air burning in my lungs with every terror-stricken breath, followed by frosted, misty exhales.

Still, I fought on. I had to. For I had a far more dangerous opponent than frozen streets: Krev—or time, my desperate mind had yet to figure that one out.

Never had it been so easy to push through the crowd. Not that there was a crowd. The marketplace was mostly empty, but the drunks and latecomers that happened to be in my path didn't realize what hit them before I had already reached the stairs.

Not that far to Jorrvaskr now.

The air had been freezing all day, yet now it felt heated against my skin—unconscious anger building itself with pale bricks, one atop another, locking away my fear behind a wall of anger. Still, that wall was far from complete.

_Ysolda is fine! Ysolda is fine! Ysolda is fine!_

My mind raced. Repeatedly reassuring me that she was fine. She had to be. There was only one explanation that made sense: Krev took her to get to me. It was the only thing that made sense. She wouldn't hurt her. She wouldn't.

But she had her. And that fact only added to the bricks within me, placing more of them atop the slowly climbing wall. My fear was fading. And the pale bricks of anger began to take their grip—chafing, scratching, gnawing. How dare she take the one I love? How dare she use her against me!

No… The fear was fading, locked away inside. Anger had taken hold, justified anger that tasted of tears and blood, salt and metal. It controlled my movement, clenched my teeth, heated my skin, whitened my knuckles, and ripped open the door.

"She's taken her!" I shouted as I stormed into Jorrvaskr, not knowing if there was anyone around to hear.

"Calm down, child," Tilma said calmly as she stopped cleaning the floors and turned toward me. "Who's taken who?"

"Krev! The Silver Hand! They've taken Ysolda," I shouted.

"I said, calm down," she repeated, "What makes you think they took her?"

"By Ysmir!" I didn't have the time to explain. "She sent me my letter, the one I gave Ysolda! Drew a map on it and everything."

"Ha! Now that's a trap if I ever heard one," Vignar interrupted as he came out of his sleeping chamber, wearing nightclothes.

"Of course, it's a trap!" I shouted in response. I felt like punching his old face, I wasn't stupid, I knew it was a trap the moment I had read the letter. "Enough with this!" I couldn't waste more time talking. I need to leave, now. But first, I needed my armor.

Tilma tried to say something, but I wasn't listening anymore. My steps were set for the basement.

* * *

If I had been this fast at donning my armor when I was heading out with Skjor and Aela, things might have turned out differently.

_Why was I thinking about that now?_

Could I really blame myself for Skjor's death? I could, couldn't I? I had been late, too late. If that truly was the reason for his death, I couldn't make the same mistake now. I _wouldn't_.

I fumbled to get the leather straps buttoned in the weak candlelight, fumbled to get my dagger in place. Hastily I reached for my traveling bag, only to pull my hand back as I touched it. I didn't have the time to pack basic provisions, nor the need for them. Time was of the essence. Or was it?

_Ysolda's safe,_ my mind repeated. _Krev took her to get to me. It's me she wants. There's nothing she'd gain from hurting Ysolda._

But this was Krev… Could I really count on logic? She was unpredictable, sadistic, mental. No… I couldn't count on it. Honestly, I had no idea to what lengths she'd go. Did she even have a plan, or was it all a part of her sick game? There was no way I could know, only hope. I could only hope.

That realization only made the wall inside me stronger—pale bricks taking on a warmer hue, heating. Still, the wall was cracked—fear, seeping through like poison, barely-there behind the angered stone. But it was there, slithering around in the back of my mind, still twisting my stomach.

Angry as I was, I was still afraid.

Without realizing it, I had frozen. Staring at the ring on my finger, grasping my gloves with my other hand.

_She's safe… She's safe…_

I tore my focus from my ring, convincing myself she was and pushed my hand into my glove. Strapped on my vambraces. Reached for my axe. And left.

* * *

Tilma and Vignar were still in the mead-hall. Whatever they had been talking about, their voices ceased the moment I ascended the stairs. They both looked worried. Couldn't blame them, I must have looked worse—desperation, anger, and fear tend to leave a harsh expression.

"You can't go alone," Vignar said, stepping in front of me to hinder my steps. And what was he going to do about it? Come along? Pull a muscle lifting a sword? Nag them to death? "Companions never fight without a shield-sibling. At least wait till someone returns."

Wait until someone returns? Everyone _just _left. They wouldn't be back for days, weeks. Did he really believe I had that time? The very thought of it only served to add fuel to my anger.

I've never had a staredown with an old man before. He was serious, but so was I. And I wasn't about to wait around simply because he said so.

"…What choice do I have?" He didn't answer—there was no answer. I wouldn't threaten an old man, but nothing felt beneath me now. "Step aside… before I make you."

For a second, I thought he wouldn't bend. But his hard eyes quickly changed, a retreating expression on his face. And I knew why. I could feel it. Awakened. Glaring through my eyes.

I was surprised my wolf hadn't awakened sooner. But the wall of anger in me, the stones, were now burning. And locked away behind it, there was no longer any fear. But hatred… Yellow seeping fury—flowing through the cracks like bitter mist. Begging to come out.

I could feel him. Standing in the place of my former fear. Scraping his claws against the wall—intimidatingly slow.

I don't know if Vignar stepped aside because of me, or because of who was glaring him down through my eyes. Didn't care either. For aside he stepped, looking down as he did. And I didn't hesitate to walk past him.

* * *

The aurora burned with green above my head, twisting and turning like flames on waves across the starry sky, giving color to the white snowy fields before me. But I was far too distracted by purpose to appreciate its beauty.

I knew the direction, but not the location—pinpointing it from a hand-drawn map, almost faded in my memory, wasn't possible. Even if I had a map with me, it wouldn't be possible.

_Northwest. Somewhere toward the mountains. _That's all I had to go by.

How far had I walked? How long? It felt like an eternity, yet at the same time, I could feel myself losing seconds, minutes—time I couldn't waste. Every second was precious.

Whiterun was far behind me, and the mountains equally far ahead. Shor… I could use Aela right now. She's the best tracker I know. She would have found something, smelled something. My own nose only caught frozen air and frost. My eyes, untouched snow—stretching to the distant treeline.

It was cold, but anger kept me warm. And the anger kept me walking, no matter the deep snow. Desperate anger fueled my strife, motivated my every step, drove me forward, forced me.

_She's safe. She's safe. She's safe_. My mantra continued, truth be told it didn't help so much anymore, never really did.

The trees were closer now—a faint scent of cold bark and wood—but the snow was still untouched.

There had to be something to follow, anything. Someone had left the letter. They must have walked back, or ridden. They must have left _some _tracks behind, footprints, horse tracks, anything. They wouldn't move through heavy vegetation—so neither did I.

It was darker now. The aurora barely glowed through the fir trees over my head, and my sight served me less and less the further I walked.

_Think like your prey, become like your prey. Move where they would move._

It was a basic tracking tactic when you didn't have anything to follow—and right now, I didn't. I could only guess as I moved between the trees, and I never was any good at guessing. I liked being the one in control, and now… I had none. Krev was the one holding it all. And I realized now… that she always had.

Ever since Skjor, she had been in control. Perhaps even before that. How long had she been around before we met her? The things we saw… found, in that fort. The chamber. The werewolves… She must have been at it for years.

_Not at all like the dogs we had when I was a kid,_ her words spoke in my mind. Not years… decades.

Right now, I felt she was the only one in control. And I hated it. And I feared it. Hated it. Feared it. Hated it. Feared it… But mostly, I hated it!

Everything within me screamed I couldn't let her have Ysolda a second longer than she already had. I'll prevent it, if it's the last thing I'll do, I'll prevent it.

Stendarr's mercy. Mara's love. Ysmir, Ysgramor, Talos, and Shor… Guide me.

…Hircine. Lord of the hunt… Father of manbeasts… Please…

And like that, my foot landed on trampled snow. An abrupt heartbeat of hope nearly choked me as I stopped.

Had my prayers been answered? Was it faith? Luck? It didn't matter—I'll thank any delusional excuse my desperate mind could conjure—for the tracks were deep.

My heart had barely calmed before I kneeled down to feel the tracks. No animal made these tracks, nor was it made by hunters. They were too deep. Heavy armor-deep. And only warriors wore heavy armor. The Silver Hand. Must be. Couldn't be anyone else.

Before I knew it, instinct took over and I had drawn my axe and ran down the tracks, kicking snow as I went.

Aela would've recommended a stealthy approach, but I had neither the time, skill, nor patience for it—nor did I care for it, only better if they saw me coming. And the moment I began smelling fire, I knew I was on the right track. And when it came into view, a fire burning behind the trees. Again, I could feel him reawaken within me as before—hungry anger clawing behind the wall, ferociously glaring through the cracks. How quickly it grew.

I slowed down to a stop, not to get into the light. I could already see two men warming themselves by the fire. And past the fire was an old stone building. Looked like a storehouse, or an old outpost. It couldn't hold more than two or three rooms unless this place too had a basement.

I had seen what I needed to, the two men didn't look like much, and I made my axe comfortable in my hands as I began walking towards them.

To take after Farkas: _Let's introduce myself._

"WHERE IS SHE?!" I shouted—roared—before they had noticed me. And with those words leaving my lips, I felt my anger turn to rage. This wouldn't be a pretty fight, my insides only wanted them dead.

They jerked toward me in surprise, drawing their swords by instinct. But their surprise quickly settled as one of them began to smile. No. Grin.

"Oh, looky here," the grinning Silver Hand started. "Seems there's a lure for wolves after all."

"That's the one?" The other Silver Hand asked.

"Does it matter?" The grinning one continued. "That armor or not, look at his eyes. That's a _wolf _all right."

Their brief exchange of words didn't slow my pace, I was getting close. "ANSWER ME!" I roared as I felt reason leave my mind—instinct setting in, reflexes and muscle memory taking over.

The grinning man started laughing as he charged for me, sword-arm high.

The only downside with wielding a heavy axe was that it was slow, he'd strike first. My body knew this before my mind did as I buried one foot in the snow and lifted the other.

_Your weapon is nothing more than a tool. Your true weapon is your body._ A faint memory of Skjor from long ago.

My boot dug into his stomach before his sword had begun its descent. He wasn't laughing anymore as my kick sent him flying back.

The other man was upon me before my foot had settled in the ground, swinging wide from the side. My torso bent backward just as my foot found ground, his sword-tip grazing my chest plate as it swung by. And as his sword missed, my muscles turned hard and I surged forward and swung my axe into his side, digging through his abdomen—his death rattle was nothing but shock and abrupt silence. His body fell the moment I forcefully removed my axe from his flesh.

I could smell the blood before I got the chance to see it, but I had more important matters to attend to—a Silver Hand gasping for air on the ground.

Maybe he wasn't as defeated as he looked—the moment I approached, he took a roaring swing for my legs.

Again reflex took my body as I kicked forward and his sword bounced sharply off the armored part of my shin. And as his sword-arm flew back, my foot quickly stomped down—pinning it in place against the snow covered ground.

Something inside of me enjoyed the sudden expression of fear in his eyes as I lifted my axe above my head—as if death itself stood before him. He wasn't wrong. The beginning of a scream took shape on his lips just as my axe dug into his chest—warm blood splattered against my face—silencing his final voice before it had begun.

My axe twisted itself out of his chest as I walked over his body, no hesitation in my steps as they aimed for the door.

The smell of warm blood burned in my nose, its taste on my lips. I could even feel the warm drips in my face. The burning behind my eyes only grew—rare as it was—a newly shared emotion.

_We'll kill them all._

* * *

As I entered the prison, three Silver Hands stood battle-ready in the middle of the room, surely alerted by the earlier noises. Before they began to move, I lifted my axe above my head and threw it with all my might toward the closest man.

Skyforge steel spun through the air before it hit its mark, forcefully biting through skin and flesh before it dug into bone and threw the man back—the two others reacted as expected, surprise, shock, comprehension, and then action. One faster than the other as he decided to charge me, lifting his battle-axe above his head.

_Why do they always charge with such obvious attacks? Pathetic!_

Unarmed, I readied myself as he swung down. A quick step forward invaded his space, I grabbed his arm and twisted my body, fluidly using his movement to throw him over my shoulder. He grunted as he landed hard on his back on the stone floor.

I quickly turned for the attack I knew was incoming and was faced with an incoming sword. With barely a second to react, basic instinct mastered over my training and I grabbed his sword with my bare hand, hard and fast enough that it didn't even break my skin.

_It's all about grip strength._

For half a second, he gave me a shocked look before I twisted his sword aside, creating an opening, and buried my right fist in his face. His sword left his hand as he stumbled backward and fell on his ass—cries of pain as he lifted his hands to his face, blood already pouring from between his fingers.

I walked past him to get my axe.

My axe had hit bone alright, but it seems it hadn't gone through—to think the man was still alive. His eyes said it all as I grabbed the handle—nothing a hard stomp to the bar just beneath the axe-head couldn't fix. Life left him as quickly as his pained grunts went silent.

A hard jerk removed my axe from his corpse as I turned for the sitting, nose-bleeding, and groaning man.

His back was turned toward me as I lifted my axe to my side and took a swing—first time I decapitated a man. Easier than I thought. Cleaner, too.

So far this hadn't been a fair fight. It had been a series of executions.

_How slow humans _ _ **truly ** _ _were._

I looked up at the man I had thrown over my shoulder. He had taken far too much time to get on his feet. And now, it was only him and me.

He stood frozen, almost shaking. There was fear in his eyes and fury in mine. How had I not recognized him earlier? He wasn't a man. He was a boy.

_The boy who screamed ¨werewolf.¨_

He had seemed a coward then, and he clearly seemed a coward now. Pathetic. But if _he _was here, then so must _she._

"Where… is… she?..." I demanded, giving him a piercing look.

His eyes flickered in response as if my words had physically punched him. Still, he stood frozen. It looked as if he tried to speak, but no words left his lips. But subconsciously or not, he moved his eyes to one of the doors and back to me. And that's all the communication I needed.

I turned for the door, ignoring him as I did so. Mentally, he was already defeated. And no matter how enraged I was, killing someone who's clearly younger than me just felt wrong.

It had a padlock, but the old door didn't look like much. As I kicked it in the first thing that hit me was the smell, _blood_. Then? I saw her… My axe dropped to the floor and every hint of anger washed away. Every piece of rage faded. Any emotion I had, ceased to be.

A naked corpse hanging from the ceiling. Her arms were bruised, lifted over her head and chained by her wrists. She had defended herself. Her head was tilted forward and fiery red hair hung down covering her face. But I knew it was her… I knew it was her… Streaks of dried blood ran down her naked chest and stomach, silver-spikes through her breasts, stabbed in the shape of a cross, one in each breast. And from her waist down… She was flayed… Red dried muscles and flesh showing.

I had seen the Silver Hand… No, _Krev _skin werewolves. But this? A human? …_My _human?

_The waist down, that's my rule. Even humans survive that!_

She hadn't been killed. She had been tortured. To death.

How long had she been here? Hung!? Here? How long had she _suffered _before dying of blood loss or shock?… Hours? Days?

How long?!

I fell to my knees in front of her. There was nothing inside of me—every emotion turned cold and void. My hand was shaking as I reached for her skinless feet, wet tears now running down my stubbled cheeks. But there was nothing inside of me. Nothing… As if every emotion I had ever had run off to cover behind any piece of darkness the backside of my mind could force me to forget.

And I felt nothing… Until… A hollow burning pain in the root of my chest.

…Beneath her red body in a pool of coagulated blood, uterine fluids and pieces of placenta, I saw it… The _tiniest _of things… Barely even the shape of a human… I hadn't known…

A child?

There was truly _**nothing **_left inside of me…

* * *

I don't know how long I kneeled in front of them. Staring at her mutilated corpse, my premature child in my hands. Time and existence just stopped.

I forced myself to etch it all into my memory… She had been the one… my only one… and they… The two of them… They were the only corpses to ever matter…

Everything that felt empty, the deepest of emptiness, was interrupted by a sharp pain in my right shoulder. Something tore through my skin, and dug itself through my collarbone… an axe? Other than feeling the pain, I didn't react.

"Who… did it?..." A hollow question. I already knew the answer, yet those words were the only ones my broken mind could summon. I felt the sorrow in my voice, so heavy it could hardly be heard.

My body jerked as the man behind me tried to pull out his axe from my shoulder.

"Where… IS SHE?!" A rage rekindled to spread throughout my body. _He _had reawakened—no longer clawing and glaring from behind the wall, but tearing and howling! And for once, I didn't mind.

Violence and pain as my body jerked again and again as the man desperately tried to pull out his axe—for every emotion I felt, he clearly felt the opposite. But his axe was stuck—stuck between muscles turned hard as stone. My entire body shook as every muscle tightened, and hardened to pain beyond any justified belief.

As suddenly as the axe had dug itself into my shoulder, I began to feel the familiar pain of my bones bending and twisting within my body. My insides burned with hatred, crushed wrath. The wall was coming down, breaking from within.

It shouldn't…

It isn't even a full moon…

I could feel my skin tear as my muscles expanded. My bones growing with such force my joints dislocated with loud cracking sounds. My legs sickeningly morphed and twisted beneath me, fingers breaking and cracking in my hands.

A loud ¨pop¨ as my shoulder dislocated and the axe came loose, sending the pulling man flying back. I rose—slowly—as pieces of armor fell to the floor as I turned. I felt my jaw dislocate with a violent crack, and hang down against my chest, continuing to bend and warp outward.

Everything turned yellow within me—the wall had crumbled to dust. This rage was no longer only my own.

I was towering over the man as my eyes fell on him. Not a man. The _boy_!

How was my body still obeying me? How was I still aware?!

"Stendarr have mercy…" The boy whimpered in fear as he backed up against the wall—pure horror and panic in his eyes.

I reached out and grabbed his entire head in my now clawed paw. His feet left the floor as I lifted him by his head against the wall.

"ANSWER ME!" I shouted, but all that left my lungs was a long powerful inhuman roar, unlike anything I had ever heard. This was far beyond the longest I had ever been conscious during a transformation.

_So this is how my wolf feels._

Extraordinary. Primal bloodlust coated in hate thick as tar. Senses sharper than morning sun. I can feel it all!

Wet tears tickling the fur within my hand as my nose told me what my eyes could not see—he had soiled himself.

I could easily hear the muffled cries from inside my paw as he—in panicked desperation and fear—kicked air and scratched his nails against my forearm, armored by fur.

My vision began to flicker. Darkness lapped vigorously at my consciousness as this body's _true_ owner demanded my resignation, foolish as I was, I refused. I could feel him beside me, more so than ever, screaming in my ears! Howling and roaring!

My muscles tremored, refusing to move as our two consciousnesses fought for control. It took everything I had to remain conscious, and everything he had to refuse me movement—a standstill in a tug-of-war between minds.

A spark in my senses as the sound of footsteps interrupted our ¨duel.¨ Voices. I could smell their dirty bodies approaching. Fast. Still, he refused me movement.

AT IT THEN! TAKE IT!

Rape my mind with nightmares of Oblivion if you must! Coat them in your anger and spice them with my guilt! As long as you finish what I came here to do, I shall allow it! Tear down every wall of silver-armored flesh! Rip the skin from their bones and paint the hallways with their blood! Hunt down every last piece of human scum and tear them apart! And once you do… Sniff her out wherever she's covering. Trace her scent to whatever shadowed corner she deems safe… And when you find her, break her every limb. Slid your tongue beneath her skin and tear it from her flesh! Make her laughter turn into cries! Her cries into screams! And her screams into pleads. And when she does, when she pleads… when she _begs _for death… Refuse her. Leave her to suffer where she is. Leave her to rot in her pain and agony, anguish and torment! Leave her to drown in a pool of her own blood! Do me this, and I shall allow it!

And the moment I had set my mind for surrender, my body began to move. My fist closed and the head in my hand cracked like an egg, the body went limp only to fly through the air as my wolf cast him aside and turned for the others.

My mind was receding, vision going black, but I was still here, partially. I felt my body move, fight. I heard their battle cries echo in my mind and my wolf howled fiercely in response. Moments of pain. Moments of vanquishing. And as bones crunched between my teeth, and the taste of warm blood filled my mouth, and my mind began going blank…

The screams began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not going to lie. This chapter was very emotional to write :(  
But I'm 'glad' I finally reached this point in the story, I've had the base-layout of it for over a year so. but it turned out a lot better than my original version.
> 
> I worked really hard on the werewolf transformation and the ¨rage-moment¨ in the end, and I hope it showed. :)  
I'd love to hear what you thought of the chapter!


	32. Farewell my loved ones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got this done earlier than expected. I didn't see a reason not to release it already.  
And thank you for reading my story, it feels great to know there are ppl out there who enjoy it s much as I do.
> 
> I'll try and get the next one done in two weeks.  
Enjoy!

I buried them in a shared grave beneath the family three, next to my brother and sister.

After all… they were family…

* * *

The guards had come running the moment I came in view of the city-gates, thought I was carrying a wounded. But they stopped in their tracks when the light from their torches fell on us, their shouting stopped, too—I don't know what was bloodier, the cloth I had covered them in, or me? They didn't ask as I walked past them, they simply moved aside to make room. I didn't pay attention to their faces, honestly, I didn't want to meet their eyes—seeing my tears was enough, didn't need them seeing my sorrow.

Thankfully, the dark streets were empty. Even if they hadn't been, the guards following us would've cleared the path for us. Some of them tried to help when we reached the stairs, but when I didn't stop to let them, they quickly backed off.

They felt so light in my arms… she always had.

I took them to the only place I could think of—my legs led us there anyway—Jorrvaskr. Tilma and Vignar had been waiting all night, half asleep by the tables. They woke the moment the doors shut behind me, lifting tired faces that softly awakened to apprehended dread and shock. No words were needed—they had eyes of their own.

Tilma had her fingers stuck to her lips the entire time as I sat them down on the floor, remaining on my knees by the bodies. Vignar's clenched face said ¨sorry,¨ but ¨my condolences¨ was more in his character—it didn't matter which, both meant the same. I couldn't bring myself to explain the wrapped package on Ysolda's stomach to them. If they figured it out, then so be it, if they didn't, perhaps it was for the better.

"Let's take her to the Hall of the Dead," Vignar had gently interrupted the moment.

¨The Hall of the _Dead.¨_

His words had stung hard, gripping at my heart to the point I hadn't been able to respond. But where else would I have taken them? It had felt as if my body moved on its own when I lifted them back up, as gently as I could. Vignar was already holding the doors open as I had turned.

There had been no guards to accompany us this time, and so we walked under pained silence after Vignar's flickering torchlight. My drawn-out steps had been slow, yet too fast—I wanted to hold her in my arms longer.

I had never been to the Hall of the Dead before. But sightseeing was the last thing on my mind, so I ignored the divine statues and lighted altars, decorating the stone walls, as Vignar led me to a large stone table—meant for preparing the dead.

My breath left me as I stood before the table—heart felt heavy. I couldn't put them down on it. For placing them on a table, meant for the dead, would mean I accepted them as such; dead. And in my heart, I had yet to accept them as such. I couldn't.

But they _were _dead… And one of them never even got to live.

A soft hand on my shoulder as Vignar stood beside me, his hand urging me to act. _The quicker the better._ He didn't speak, but I knew that's what he was telling me.

Something tore from me as I finally managed to place them on the table. As if I was giving away more than their bodies, something inside of me left my arms with them. I had never believed love could hurt—but it did.

It hurt so much, I couldn't breathe…

It hurt so much, I couldn't feel…

It hurt so much, I couldn't think, move, see, taste, smell, touch…

It hurt so much, I could barely manage to be.

I never noticed Vignar had left to get the Keeper of the Hall. And I never noticed them enter until they approached the opposite side of the table. The Keeper had looked tired, he wore sleeping garments—awakened in the middle of the night. But more so, he had looked indifferent as he began examining her. I should have been offended, but at that moment, those emotions didn't exist in me anymore. Besides, I couldn't blame him, he was used to these kinds of things. When he brought a bucket of water to clean her, I found myself reaching for his rag—if anyone was to clean her, it should be me. He hadn't objected.

Vignar had read the room as I began removing the cloth I had wrapped around her. They had both left shortly after. Even when they had been present I had felt alone, I didn't feel much different after they left. As I picked up the wrapped package from her, it felt horrible. It tore at me. There was no good spot to place it—no small table, no cleared altars. So I left it on the only place I could, a chair, lonely in a corner. Staring at me from the dark.

The water was cold as soaked the rag in the bucket. And for every streak of blood I wiped off, the pit in my stomach only grew deeper. But compulsorily, I continued; wiping away the blood from her face, shoulders, arms, chest, stomach…My hands stopped—shaking. I couldn't bring myself to go lower than that—how does one clean muscle and flesh?

The water was tinted red as I squeezed out the rag and dropped it in the bucket.

She was beautiful. Even in death, she was beautiful. I had always liked her hair, carrying all the colors of fire. I had never met anyone with hair like hers. Her amber eyes, they had always looked softly at me. I wanted her to open them one last time and see me—but I knew they would forever remain shut. Her soft lips, they always wore the cutest of smiles. And her smooth pink skin, cheeks, she always did blush easily. Rarely took more than a kiss. But her skin was paler now, as if bleached by the sun. Still, she was beautiful.

By Ysmir… I had always felt pathetic crying in front of her. This was no exception.

The Keeper returned with the sunrise. Tilma came, too. _I'll take you to the Temple,_ she had said._ To see the Healer._ And taking my arm, she gently pulled me away. And heedlessly, I had followed.

The temple smelled of candles and light, incense and flowers. The Healer sat me down, and, with Tilma's help, removed my armor, fursuit, and tunic. There was an altar in front of me, a statue of Kynareth—Kyne—on in. I couldn't take my empty eyes off it as Tilma cleaned the blood off of me. How befitting; that the Goddess who leads souls to the afterlife would stare me in my eyes as I grieved, teasing me her moniker of 'Kiss at the End.'

I hadn't noticed it until the Healer placed her hands on my shoulder—golden light of warmth spreading from her palms. My transformation had accelerated the healing, leaving behind a pale white scar the length of a palm over my shoulder. But the wound had still been made by silver, and it seemed werewolves heal faster on the outside than on the inside—don't we all?

_Torn trapezius… Broken collarbone… Severed tendon… _She had mumbled as she moved her hands over my shoulder. _I'm surprised you could carry anything at all. Did you pour a healing potion on this? You need to drink them for internal injuries. _If that's how she had rationalized my healed skin, I wouldn't correct her.

The pain was… comforting? Bodily pain doing it's best to distract me from my mental one—it only worked as long as I kept my mind on it.

It took the entire day, but she eventually mended my bone, did her best on my muscle. But she told me the tendon had to heal on its own as she wrapped up my arm.

Surreality was the definition of my upcoming days—sleepless nights and drawn out days. I spent most of them in the Hall of the Dead, staring at nothing, locked in a hollow world between apathy and lethargy. The Keeper cared for her while I was there. N_ever seen anything like this, _he had said. I believed him. He explained the preparations for me. He spoke to uncaringly, but honestly. He told me more than I needed to hear—I stopped listening the moment he spoke of ¨removing the organs to avoid decay.¨

I don't know how he prepared the wrapped package—didn't want to know. That he handed me a small clay-urn was already more than I could take. Once I held it in my hands, I couldn't let go of it. But neither could I look at it—I was too afraid of what would happen if I did.

Tilma had brought me food over the days. Us werewolves were always hungry, but I didn't have much of an appetite. It all tasted so bland. As if the food was missing its colors.

The others returned from their contracts over the days. First came Athis and Njada, giving mute apologies with dark expressions. They had seemed so distant. But then again, to me, everything felt distant; like trying to remember forgotten memories. Ria and Torvar had been louder. Ria cried harder than I ever did—she always was the sensitive one.

_My condolences, young one. We all grieve for your loss._ It sounded rehearsed, but I doubt anything Kodlak would say wasn't. Still, how typical of him to speak for all of them. I hated how every time he did, he actually did—speak for all of us. He knew us too well.

A lot of ¨shield-brother¨ had been thrown around when Farkas and Vilkas came. Farkas always was too honest for his own good. I knew he meant well, but he used the word ¨dead¨ more times than anyone ever should outside of a threat—though he also used the word ¨sad.¨

Vilkas had stayed with me. I thought he'd try to comfort me as he sat down beside me; tell me everything will be alright, apologies, speak of vengeance, come with some ridiculous ¨wisdom.¨ Anything really. But he remained silent, just like I wanted—he always did see right through me. And his silent company brought more comfort than any words ever could.

The Keeper had taken the liberty to prepare a place for her in the Hall of the Dead. Said it was time for the funeral. But I had never intended for them to rest in damp hallways of stone and death, amongst strangers and dust. They deserved sunlight on their tombs.

_I… I want to take them home._

Those had been the first words to leave me in almost two weeks. He understood.

Vilkas made most of the preparations; hired a carriage, travel-chest, gravestone. Cruel how carriages always charged extra for transporting dead bodies. I didn't want to know how much of our treasury he used on them, but I had the feeling the others didn't hesitate to pitch in with their own pocket-coin.

* * *

White skies. There was no wind in the air, but heavy snow fell softly around us like a silk curtain sailing to the ground. The chickens we owned kept quiet, cowering from the snow in their huts. But the cows showed no embarrassment as they kept mooing in complaint for the cold.

I gently placed their bodies in the grave my father had helped me dig. I had asked to do it alone, but he wouldn't let me—don't know if he didn't want me to be alone, or if it was him who didn't want to be alone. Not that it mattered. Even if we didn't speak, his company had been good—been years since I spent any time with him, could have been for a better reason though.

I lay the urn on Ysolda's chest and wrapped it in her arms. She had looked beautiful at Skjor's funeral—but I never thought she'd wear this dress to her own. I wanted her to wear her blue dress, but that one didn't cover up her feet, and I wasn't about to show what had been done to her to my parents.

My mother had placed mountain flowers around their grave; coloring the surrounding snow with red, purple, and blue. Those were the only flowers that bloomed even in winter. She had also lit candles all around the grave, though the candles had already gone out by the snowfall.

Along with my parents, every companion was present.

Kodlak looked his usual self. But I knew it wasn't because of indifference, he had simply seen too many funerals to have any sorrow left to share.

_My heart weeps at the grief in your own,_ was how he had introduced himself to my parents.

Farkas wore uncomfortability on his face. Vilkas, like Kodlak, poise and respect.

Again, Ria sobbed worse than my mom, Torvar too.

Like Kodlak, Farkas, and Vilkas, Athis and Njada stayed true to the ¨face of a companion¨— willful honor decorating their stance.

I leaned down to move aside some stray strands of her fiery red hair from her face. She was so pale now. Hard as it was, I lovingly brushed my fingers over her face and mentally took farewell of her. The thought of it being the last time I'd touch her made my hand stay on her cheek. She was so cold. And the snow was already dotting her face.

I had avoided this moment for days, almost weeks. But it had to be done. It had to. I couldn't breathe as I pushed myself to look down at the tiny urn in her arms. _Our_ urn.

I placed a kiss on my fingers and touched it to the rough clay urn—it felt like the right thing to do—but as I did, my heart became so heavy I no longer knew if it was beating or not.

_Did I really have a child?_

I carefully took Ysolda's hand in my own, touched her cold stiff fingers, and removed her wedding ring. Eorlund had given me a small chain before we left—prepared in the Skyforge—and I had a feeling this is what he had made it for as I pulled the chain through her ring and placed it around my neck.

The ring felt warm against the skin on my chest as I tucked it inside my tunic.

As I stepped back to join the others, my father grabbed the shovel and began burying them. I could feel every spade of snow and dirt that landed on them. Pain.

This was the second time I heard him sing 'The Hymn of Kyne.' This time, in pain, I joined in the song. Kodlak did the same… Didn't know he could sing.

As the last spades fell, Vilkas grabbed my shoulder and gave me a look.

"Don't look at your parents," he whispered.

_Yes… I could feel it._

I had seen what my wolf had done when I had gone back for their bodies and my armor. My wolf hadn't just killed them. He had _slaughtered _them. Mutilated them. Some of the Silver Hands had even been left to die by their wounds—not something he usually did: leaving prey to suffer.

I held no anger nor rage towards the Silver Hand. I knew they weren't to blame. Like so many others, they had been nothing more than her _toys_. There was only _one _to blame. But she hadn't been there. Of course, she hadn't been there. She had never intended to face me, she had intended to break me. And in a sense, she had.

_Krev… Krev…. Krev…_

No matter how many times I summoned her name in my mind, anger was beyond me. Only sadness and sorrow—pain and grief—remained. No… there was no anger within me. Yet my eyes had taken to glow.

Seems even my wolf was attending. But in a way I understood…

_It was his family, too._

After all, he had yet to use them against me in my fading dreams of horror.

I crossed one arm over my chest and lifted the other, pretending to rub the tears out of my eyes to hide them, a foolish thought—there was no need to pretend. But with no anger to calm, there was little I could do but to let him watch.

My father stuck the spade into the ground and kneeled down by the blank gravestone. He brushed the layers of snow that had formed on it and gave me a wave to join him.

With a heavy sigh, I walked forward, still covering my eyes. As I kneeled down beside him he placed his hand on my shoulder and reached out his other hand in front of me.

He was holding a chisel and a small hammer.

"This honor is for you to do, my son." The hollow weeks ended. Reality struck. _Mara's mercy, how could I ever? _"Do you have a name?" He asked.

_A name? By Ysmir… a _ _ **name?** _

My heart tore. Tears starting to run down my cheeks. _Why?_ A lump in my throat.

_I had a child._

He held the tools in front of me, waited, took all the time I needed, until I accepted them and leaned forward, placing the chisel against blank stone.

"Yes…" I answered as I lifted the hammer.

\- **HERE LIES YSOLDA SHOAL -**

**\- MOTHER AND WIFE -**

**\- AND -**

**\- JIDA SHOAL -**

**\- WHO NEVER LEARNED OF LIFE -**


	33. Written in Flesh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I got the next one done.
> 
> Lots of work and time went into this one, so I hope you like it.  
If you get the feeling this chapter created more questions than answers, it means I've succeeded. :)

Another sleepless night. To think, a few weeks ago I preferred the extra room in the bed for myself. Now it only felt empty, lonely, and cold. I had forgotten how dark this basement was, before one lit the candles. I couldn’t even make out the ceiling above me—it was all black.

My lantern was close by. It took me a while to light it, not because it was difficult, but because I didn’t feel any need to rush. As the warm light touched the walls of my room, I grabbed a candle and lit it in the flame of the lantern for use to light the rest.

There was breakfast on my table. Tilma had been doing that lately. I hadn’t noticed her entering my room. Guess I had gotten some dreamless sleep after all. _Dreamless… _I don’t know how I felt about that: _Relief_ that for the last few weeks, my wolf didn’t torture me with nightmares; Or _hurt_ that even in my dreams he’d refuse to let me see her. 

I didn’t care if it’d be in horror, I only wanted to see her.

I took my time getting dressed, I should at least try to start the day, but I didn’t feel like donning my armor—fursuit of black would do, for the same reason as Skjor’s funeral and… _their _funeral—companions don’t wear armor during grief.

I tried to eat, but the bread tasted like paper in my mouth—rough and dry—so I left it as is. Water went down easier though. One wet sip after the other helped time pass while my mind set itself to focus on nothing.

The basement hallway was empty. Nor did I hear any sound from any of the rooms. The candles were lit, but the others were probably out doing their morning training already.

I heard talking as I walked up the stairs, recognized their voices: Vilkas and Tilma.

“Good morning,” Tilma greeted. A part of me appreciated that there was no pity in her voice, nor her eyes.

“Aye,” Vilkas said before I could greet them back. He always grabbed his wolf-head shaped belt buckle when he tried to stand with composure. Or by habit. “Why don’t you join me for training? Been a long time since we sparred,” he continued as I approached them by the fire. First time _he _was the one to ask for a match. “Or is your shoulder still sore?”

_¨Been a long time since we sparred.¨_ Right. We hadn’t sparred since before Skjor died, that was only a couple of months ago—yet it felt longer.

Don’t know if he asked, to avoid the _mammoth in the room,_ or if he wished to provide comfort through distraction. Both would have been welcome. But I wanted to be alone.

“No, it’s fine. But I… I think I’ll go for a walk today.”

“Aye,” he answered without moving a muscle. Unlike Tilma, his silver-blue eyes held a hint of compassion, but also comprehension. “You do that. We’ll be here if you change your mind.”

* * *

Leafless branches stretched above me, a snowy skeleton of the Gildergleam against a white sky. Snowflakes evaded the branches like flies as they wriggled their way towards me, melting to drips as they settled on my face. The bench was cold against my buttocks and back, I didn’t mind—it’d get warmer soon.

Heimskr was shouting his prayers to Talos as usual. But his voice felt muted, distant. I wasn’t listening anyway—my ears were set on another sound entirely; joyous laughter.

There had always been children in the city. But I had never paid them any attention—until now. They looked happy, playing in the snow, building snowmen and throwing snowballs at one another, wearing fur-clothes so thick they could hardly run—still, they tried. And as they fell, face down in the snow, they would struggle clumsily for a while before getting back on their feet, laughing with frostbitten cheeks and snow covered faces. There was innocence in their eyes. Safety. They had no worries.

_Jida._

I don’t know why I chose a girl’s name, there had been no way of knowing if it had been a boy or a girl. But, somehow, in my heart, I felt it was a girl. Ysolda would've like that. A daughter. _Our daughter. _For some reason, it made me think of my sister. I can’t recall the last time I thought of her, she died before I even had memories.

_This must be how my parents had felt, losing her._

Ysolda and I had never spoken of children. Some part of me had always thought it’d happen when it happens—guess it had. We married last summer. That too felt like an eternity ago... almost a different life. A life without worries for the future, when we simply lived one day before the next.

Krev had changed all of that. She had changed all of that the moment she had taken Skjor. She had changed all of that the moment Aela and I failed to avenge him. And again, she had changed all of that the moment she set her eyes on my ring, and on me…

I knew all the blame was on _her_. It was all because of her. Still, I couldn’t help but feel the gnawing guilt within me. The guilt that kept me up at night. The guilt that gripped me, and squeezed so hard I could barely take it for the pain in my chest. Was it _truly _all her fault? Could I truly place all the blame on her?

_There should have been three of us._

Had I not been late that morning, Skjor would never had gone alone. And the three of us would easily have defeated her. But he _had _gone alone… And when I had the chance to avenge him, I had failed. I had hesitated and failed because I had been afraid. I _could _have taken her, had I not been afraid of her. And because I failed, she set her eyes on me—filled with glee—as she went after the one I love. Defeating me from outside of my reach. Even denying me a fighting chance. It had all been part of her plan. How had I not seen it coming?

The chained ring gave little comfort as I held it in my palm, slowly caressing it with my thumb—if anything, it only enhanced my pain. Round, round, and round my thumb felt the golden ring. Ysolda had always been the one to comfort me when I got thoughts such as these: guilt, shame, and remorse.

_Who could possibly comfort me now?_

Why had I even become a companion in the first place, if not to protect the ones I love? Because of my brother? He died because I was too weak and afraid to help him. And, like a coward, I had fled. I no longer knew if him telling me to run had anything to do with it. At the time, it hadn’t mattered, no matter how many times I try to tell myself otherwise… I would’ve run either way. 

My father had told me not to blame myself—that I should be proud and honored that he had given his life to protect me, and died a _true Nord_. But I had never felt as such. Truth be told, even now, I’ve only ever felt guilt for his death. He died because I had been weak.

But I’m not weak anymore—no one would argue that. And still, I had failed. Still, I couldn’t protect them.

_What’s the use of being strong if you can’t protect those you love?_

“You look lost, Companion,” an old voice interrupted my thoughts of self judgement.

“What?” I blurted as I took my eyes off Ysolda’s ring and lifted my head.

It was an old woman—all snowy fur-coat and hood. She looked familiar somehow, but I couldn’t place where I had seen her before. She had a kind face—wrinkles enhancing her soft smile—and a clear look in her eyes. But her eyes were muddy and white. A rare eye color. I wondered if they once had been blue.

“Lost your way, have you?” She continued.

“No—I… I live in Jorrvaskr,” I answered, gesturing down the street toward Jorrvaskr before I returned the chained ring to my neck, tucking it inside my shirt.

“That’s not what I meant, dear,” she said, looking down the street before she turned her attention to the basket in her arm. I could smell the bread, potatoes, and herbs. “Say, you wouldn’t mind helping an old lady carry her groceries home, would you?”

“I…” I hesitated. But what else would I do? Remain on this bench, wallowing in self-pity? Besides, what companion would turn down an old woman? “…sure.”

She was holding out her basket for me before I even had gotten the time to rise. It didn’t look heavy as she smilingly pushed it in my hands. It wasn’t.

* * *

“It’s a nice weather we have today…” she said as we walked through the marketplace. _Were we really about to discuss the weather? I’d rather walk in silence. _“…But I always preferred the summers. All this white is too hard on these old eyes of mine.”

“Just point me where to go.” I was _not_ going to talk about weather and poor eyesight.

I ignored her look as we walked through the crowd—narrow streets approaching.

“It’s just a bit down the streets here,” she finally said, pointing towards one of the many alleyways.

I knew this street. It’s the same street Ysolda’s and my house is on. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling.

“We all lose our ways sometimes,” she started as we began walking the narrow streets of stone. “Some because of chance, others because of hardship. And some lose their way simply because they dally in life.”

I gave her a sideways look as she spoke. I had a feeling I knew where this was going. _Why do old people always insist on giving wisdom?_

“But no matter how lost we sometimes are, there’s always a road in front of us. And one only needs to remember, that someone put that road there for a reason. And few realize that those roads are always tailored for us specifically—not for anyone else.”

_Roads? Tailored?_ “You’re… talking about _faith_?”

Her smile grew wider. “And here people say you warriors are all brawn, no brain.”

“You really believe in that sort of thing?”

“When you’re my age, dear, you tend to not believe in things. One knows, or one doesn’t.”

Kodiak would like her—they’re both the all-cryptic-wisdom sort. In other words, the _annoying _sort.

I didn’t like this street, and now my pace began to lag as my house came into view. I hadn’t set my eyes on it since the day I found Krev’s letter. My letter. And after that day, I’ve not yet been able to bring myself home. There’s simply… too many memories. Memories that now tore at me as I stared at the dark, cold windows.

“This way, dear,” The old lady said, pulling me from my mind. I hadn’t realized she had walked past me, gotten a head start toward the house she was signaling at.

_That’s how I had recognized her. _She was our neighbor, I must have met her on the streets many a time without realizing it.

Like most buildings in Whiterun, it was an old wooden house made of heavy logs and planks, with a strong stone chimney sticking out of its roof, softly coughing smoke. But it was smaller than most, more like a log cabin than an actual house.

She was smiling kindly as I approached her by the door. “Thank you,” She said as I gave her the basket. “Say would you like to come in for a cup of tea? It’d be awfully unkind of me not to offer thanks.”

“I…” My house was still on my mind, and I didn’t feel like spending any more time with her—or with anyone for that matter. “Thanks, but I think I’ll head back.” Thankfully, she didn’t look offended.

“Well, that _is _your choice,” she said as she unlocked her door. “But I do think I have something that might be of help to you. To _find your way_, that is.”

_To find my way, _I thought as she went in the door. _Right. _But the way she’d said it sounded as if she had something specific in mind. As if she knew something I didn’t. It did grab my attention, even if in an uncomfortable and questionable way.

She had left the door open, and for a moment, I stood outside. Looking around as I couldn’t decide if I’d head back to Jorrvaskr or take her up on her offer.

_Eh–what the heck…_

* * *

The inside looked older than the outside: dirt floor, poorly made furniture, low ceiling, windows with moth-bitten curtains. The ceiling was covered in spices and herbs—hung to dry—cinnamon, mint, earthy mushrooms, honey, tree sap, and more—giving the place a pungent aroma. Admittedly, it was hard to pinpoint all the smells. I could see alchemist-tools on the shelves—mortars and the like—but also trinkets and small tools I didn’t recognize a use for.

“I hope you like Canis root-tea,” she said as she stood by the warming oven, placing an old rusted kettle on the fire. She had taken off her outer layers and wore a yellow dress now. Her hair was white and long, but surprisingly clean and cared for, for an old woman. “Do you take honey?”

“No…” I never did like sweet things. I couldn’t help but notice the small bed in the corner and the overall lonely read of the room as I walked over to the old table. “…Do you live alone?”

“Oh, my husband died years ago,” she answered softly, reaching for a pair of wooden mugs. “Died in the Great War he did.”

_The Great War._ That was before even my time. “I’m sorry.” Felt like the right thing to say.

“No need. He was old already then, I knew he wouldn’t return.”

_Knew he wouldn’t return._ That’s a cruel way of thinking. But surely someone must care for her? “Children?” I asked, looking at her back as she worked the kitchen.

“We tried many times, but I could never bear children. Knew that, too.” Odd how she still had a glad voice, even while wielding a sentence like that.

Again, I felt like apologizing. But the subject of children struck too close to home, so I didn’t. “Then, how do you come by? I don’t mean to offend, but aren’t you too old for work?”

The water was boiling, giving off a steamy, bitter smell as she took the kettle with a pot-holder and poured two cups. “Why don’t you take a seat, dear,” she said as she approached the table with the cups.

The chair groaned as I sat down and for a second I questioned whether it would hold my weight or not, but I felt relieved as it seemed to hold.

“I get along just fine…” she began as she passed me one of the cups over the table. The window next to us offered plenty of light, and unlike when she had been by the stove, I could see her clearly now. Her white hair made whiter by the light, her muddy eyes were somehow clearer than they had been outside, and her wrinkles added to any and all smiling expressions she made. She must have been beautiful in her youth. “…I offer advice to those in need. Those who have lost their way. And my customers pay more than well for my advice—though you won’t find any of them in this city.”

“People… pay you for advice?” Never heard of such a profession. The closest thing I could think of was the steward, but he does so much more than offer the Jarl advice. “What sort of advice?”

“The type I’m offering you,” she said with a smile.

_To help you find your way. Tailored roads. Faith._ Did she really believe in that crap?

Her eyes wouldn’t break from mine as she seemed to wait with a smile on her lips.

“You help people get back on their path?” I asked in disbelief.

“Almost. People always get back on their path, there’s no avoiding that. No… I help people _know _their path.” She lifted her cup after she had finished and took a sip.

_Know their path,_ I thought as I, too, lifted my cup. The tea was bitter, but warming.

“So now…” she began as she lowered her cup. “…let me take a look at what’s in store for yours.” She held out one hand towards me, resting it on the table as she asked for mine.

_Really?_ I thought as I realized her intent. “You _read hands_?” I asked. To say I was skeptical about these kinds of things would be an understatement. _There’s no such thing as faith. Things happen and that’s it. There’s no reason behind it, only chance._

“It’s a hobby of mine, yes,” she said, still her eyes were locked on me as she awaited my hand.

With a sigh, I reluctantly leaned forward and offered her my hand. _This better be good._

“Now let’s see what these old eyes of mine can find,” she said as she took my hand, turning her attention to my palm. “A warrior’s hand. Good, bigger hands hold more to read.”

“And _what_ do you read?” As I asked, I realized my voice no longer hid my disbelief.

“All kinds of things,” she said softly, still looking into my palm. “Small things like you’re in grief, you don’t like sweets, and childhood friends are good to have,” she began, drawing her old finger over my palm. “But there’s also the bigger things, like when wearing red, beware of tusks in the forest and bears in storms, mind the eyes of eagles, and don’t trust steel to lizards.”

_Really? A quack. Why was I not surprised?_ The short amount of time we’d spent together was more than enough for her to figure most of that out. Kodlak always claimed to be good at reading people’s eyes, but I knew he picked up on the smaller things. It’s all about being observant, and this old hag was no different. As for the rest—

“And it seems you’ll experience death more than once,” she interrupted my thoughts. _More than once? As if I hadn’t already. Most of Whiterun knew that. Hag—using my rumors against me._ “How romantic… That it is _love _that’ll save you.”

“That’s a load of nonsense,” I interrupted. Yes, I no longer attempted to hide my disbelief. The woman’s a fraud, only a fool would be impressed. _I can’t believe people pay for this._

“Of course it is—”she lifted her eyes to meet mine“—_child of Hircine._”

_What?!_

I pulled back my hand, surprise and shock on my face as I hastily leaned back in my chair, backrest hindering my retreat. Her smile wasn’t soft anymore, it was more teasing, joyous, pleased—as if she had more than confirmed a suspicion. My disbelief had instantly turned into dubious distrust.

“Oh–don’t worry,” she said, smiling to the point of a grin, “We know I carry far darker secrets than yours.” Again, she reached out her hands toward me. “Now, give me both hands so I can continue.”

_¨Child of Hircine.¨ _How had she known? Who is this woman? “Who are you?” I asked, more than suspicion in my voice.

“I’m just a feeble old woman, dear,” she answered, still awaiting my hands.

“Are you a witch?” It was a longshot. I’ve only heard rumors of women studying the occult, read a few of Kodlak’s books. This woman might not live secluded in a forest, reading fortunes from intestines, but the inside of her house spoke differently. There were far too many herbs and trinkets here for a normal old woman.

“A witch?” she almost laughed. “Those old crones can call their guesswork _visions_ all they want, pretending to _see beyond_ as the play in their ignorance. No. There’s no magic or rituals in my work—and I’m certainly no Deadra-worshipper. I’m a _seer,_ and my sights aren’t given from some immortal lord given form, but from the shapeless void between the worlds themselves.”

She sounded insane. But I had to admit, my disbelief had turned into skepticism as I leaned forward, slowly giving away my hands as I watched her.

“Now let’s see here,” she said as she again started studying my palms. “Interesting…” she mumbled. “…seems your path is since long written in more than flesh—it’s _written in stone._”

Again with the cryptic talk. Why was I doing this? ¨Child of Hircine,¨ she must have made a lucky guess. Heard hidden rumors. Something. There _had _to be a logical explanation. Still, a part of me was curious.

“To think even _my _death is written here…” she continued in a low voice. “…as-the-heavens-fall-on-the-hill-of-the-dragons.”

_And, by Ysmir, back to fancy-sounding nonsense._ But still, I watched her with curiosity as she took her time ¨reading¨ my hands—gently poking at my fingers as her eyes went from one to another.

“Okey,” she suddenly said, letting go of my hands as she turned her white muddy eyes on me. She wasn’t smiling anymore. “I think I have what I need. Now listen closely, dear, for I’m only going to tell you once.”

I was surprised as I leaned forward on the table—she actually had my attention.

She began speaking in a normal voice, not that I know how a seer’s supposed to talk but except for the cryptic sentences she sounded more like a spokesman—telling it how it is—rather than giving her voice melodrama to sound ¨mysterious.¨

“Dead heart beats, old tale told, wounded wolf, for aid she’ll fold.  
Eternal steel, toward ground fall, silver breaks skin, bone and all.  
Vengeance served, do take heed, or accursed rage, be your steed.  
Time will pass, wounds shall heal, but the bleeding crown, your aid will need.  
Glorified messenger, torn lands walk, till the request for dragon, are made by Jarl.  
Dragon lay dead, torn asunder, awakened by soul, you’ll no longer slumber.  
Heed the call, the mountain-shout, seven thousand steps, will be your route.  
Met by old, your voice be heard, through boredom alone, words be learned.  
Through heaven you fall, _nothing _be learned, carried by wind, till ground be returned.  
Wolfpack assembles, yellow glowing eyes, chained loyalty, unhonorable yet wise.  
In the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, red faces blue, till Ysmir stops all.  
Wrath of Kyne, friend will fall, the wolf and bear battle, till winter be called.  
Biggest of crime, mass murderer born, eagle eyes set, locked behind thorn.  
Justice be served, the headsman’s axe fall, time no more matters, four feet outruns all.  
A test she asks, death will call, not to fail, still you’ll fall.  
Circle of glass, gold as you fell, ¨enchanted by emotion,¨ the explanation they’ll tell.  
Time of the essence, travel by sea, dead waters under, winds shall wood lead.  
The eagle nest yearns, eagles unbound, the last of your blood, they’ll burn as it’s found.  
Vengeance and wrath, still you move on, the City of Thieves, loremaster will hold.  
Red moon arises, calling your hunt, true master summoned, till by voice you’re unbound.  
Heaven a temple, the wall will be found, ¨written in stone,¨ ancient lore all around.  
The powerful rises, meeting adjourned, forced peace suffices, the mages are learned.  
Hidden by ice, your knowledge unfound, in the City of Kings, by old friends you’re found.  
Lured toward dragon, still one is around, last Harbinger falls, she-wolf unbound.  
Darkest of time, the lowest you’ll fall, peace be forgotten, again there’ll be war.  
Still don’t despair, by half-elf you’re found, strands of fire, joy all around.  
Written in stone, knowledge be forced, fight it you will, yet upon you it’s brought.  
Unwanted companion, the one who conjures, thoughts of fatherhood, again you’ll ponder.  
Allies before, but allies no more, a caravan of sinners, all of them shall fall.  
Steel you will seek, split tongue of lies, the lizard is sleek, Shadowscale in disguise.  
Atmoran mind hold, blue eyes of such, weep while you can, before in hatred’s clutch.  
Dragon and wolf, fighting on chest, Companion restored, time must unrest.  
Time shall rip, past recalled, dragon made mortal, the black scaled one stalled.  
Old allies summoned, they’ll heed your call, crimson scaled dragon, his name was his fall.  
Carried by wings, Fatherland under, temple of old, through a portal of wonder.  
Mist of the dead, World Eater hunger, he’ll have his fill, to Shor’s hall you’ll wander.  
Heroes of old, commoners too, the one who first died, he’ll greet you there too.  
Prophecy ended, destiny fulfilled, rest while you can, die if you will.  
Ages go by, your time be forgotten, all dragons rise, lands already rotten.  
Lost in time, no -one is born, at the throat of the world, like the black one before.  
Way of the voice, a battle of wills, far away lands, across seas that chills.  
Minds are forced, memories stolen, against dragon of old, will still unbroken.  
Girl into woman, travels by stone, mushrooms on ash, made to a home.  
Books of black shadow, sea of black ink, top tower battle, Deadra unhinged.  
Knowledge learned, wisdom got, cruelty by words, no-one willingly forgot.  
Mind be set, the lake freezes over, ironclad will, a full-on do-over.  
Named by dragon, work must be done, unlikely alliances, injustice undone.  
Trades will be made, both seeking powers, dragons for high seats, the one-armed desires.  
Betrayed woman grieves, surrounded by death, an offer agrees, alliance beset.  
Rise King of Draugr, dead hands to work, dragon cult rises, forced piece is yearned.  
Blood will run, heavens fall, Hill-of-the-Dragons, stone city stands tall.  
Questions asked, reason boils over, answers unmasked, done for the poorer.  
Wings will travel, rot everywhere, nobles don’t starve, the common despair.  
Reason recalled, mind always set, named by dragon, never regret.  
White finger of gold, reaching so high, request will be told, all cast aside.  
Crowned throat threatened, words spoken to all, last day of an Era, Dragon ate all.  
Reptilian allies, old trees foretold, no need to argue, convincing heed sold.  
Peace by force, Cyrodiil asunder, rebels and dead, nobles lay under.  
End after end, betrayal of all, _death _was the word, killed from afar.  
Youngest of dragons, stands atop tall, ironclad still, set to end it all.”

It took me a while to realise she had finished, but as she lifted her tea cup to her lips and stared out the window, I figured she was done.

_A prophecy?_ I thought as I leaned back in the chair. Claiming I was confused would be an understatement, her reading had given me more questions than answers. And honestly, I didn’t know where to begin.

“There’s no way I’ll remember all of that.”

“I know you won’t, dear,” she said, putting down her cup and returning her eyes on me. “But at least you’ve heard it.”

“What does it mean?”

“Now, now. There’s no fun in spoiling what will come, I’ve already given you more than enough.” She was smiling that soft smile again as she gave a dismissive wave. “Now scurry off, I have dinner to prepare and I prefer eating alone,” she said as she rose from the table, heading for the stove.

“What?” _Is she kicking me out?_ “But, I don’t understand. I still have questions,” I said, rising from the table.

“I’m sure you do, dear. They’ll all be answered in time.” again she gave a dismissive wave, this time toward the door.

“But—”

“Scurry off,” she repeated, ignoring me as she began taking out pots and pans from her cabinets.

For a moment I stood in baffled confusion, dumbstruck, looking at her back. _Seriously? _With a sigh, I surrendered and turned, even more confused, as I could hardly open the door for my thoughts. _Dragons? Knowledge? By Ysmir, what am I to believe? _I shook my head as the door gave way and the cold air met my face. I had so much on my mind; questions, confusion, more questions. Nothing made sense… except for one thing:

_Kodlak would like her._


	34. Dead Heart Beats

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took as long as it did, but life got a bit in the way as it sometimes does.
> 
> And as things look right now, I'm also uncertain of when I'll get the next chapter done.  
But I'll aim for two weeks as usual.
> 
> That said, I hope you like this one!

Ba-bump… ba-dump… ba-dump…

I've been staring at it for a while now. It was a weird sensation—suspicion, confusion, wonder, a hint of disgust, all at the same time. I couldn't take my eyes off of it.

_"Dead heart beats…"_ her old voice repeated in my mind, her foggy eyes locked into mine in my memory.

It wasn't the first time it had grabbed my attention. Back when I had first joined the Companions, and Kodlak had taken it upon himself to teach me to read, I'd often lift my head from his boring papers to look at the heart he had on his table, sitting on a silver plate. And I'd watch it slowly beat as the seconds passed. Though it had never taken long for Kodlak to tap on the table and return my focus to the papers. The heart had given me an uncomfortable feeling even back then.

_Dead heart beats…_

I hadn't told anyone about the ¨prophecy¨ that old woman had told me. And even if I had wanted to, to tell the truth, I had already forgotten most of it. But this was definitely how she had stared, was it not? _Dead… heart… beats… _It was. I didn't spook easily, but if she really had been talking about Kodlak's heart, it was spooky… Or maybe I'm overthinking it.

"You listening, lad?" Kodlak interrupted my thoughts. He was sitting by his desk, next to the table with the heart. He had been talking as he was writing in his journal. But to answer his question; no, I wasn't. I was still too focused on the heart.

I didn't really know how to start, but there was too much on my mind right now not to bring it up in some way. And who better to talk about it to than Kodlak? "I met someone yesterday, you would have liked her."

"Would I now?" He always did that thing with one of his eyebrows when he was playing along to see where a conversation was heading. But his voice was questioning, although in a polite way, as always.

"Yeah," I continued, adjusting my seat by the corner table to face him better. "She told me something, and I'm still trying to wrap my head around what it meant." He remained silent, all while looking at me as I tried to find the words to continue. I'd repeat the ¨prophecy¨ to him if I could, but as I said, I had already forgotten most of it. "I think she was talking about your heart."

"Aye, my _heart_," he spoke, turning his attention to the beating thing on his table. "What of it?"

"That's the thing... I don't know."

"I see…" he said in a ¨thinking¨ voice. "…As I recall, it's not the first time it has drawn your attention. Did I ever tell you how I acquired the heart?"

"No."

"It was centuries ago, in my time of yore. I was still making a name for myself in Hammerfell, traveling between the cities in search of glory and honor, and admittedly, perhaps, company and coin." I had always spent more time with Skjor than Kodlak. And it felt a bit… different? Being around someone who never hesitated to speak of his past. Most of the time when it came to Kodlak, like now, one needn't even ask. "I lived on the roads, mostly earning my coin as a mercenary for caravans, and so I got to see a great deal of the lands and it's cities—and the many feasts there within. I had no visions for the future back then, and so without question, I spent most my coin on good food, drink, and the company of ladies to warm my bed."

"Ladies?" I had to ask, it was hard to imagine Kodlak as a ¨ladies' man.¨

"Even I was young once. And admittedly, I had a weakness for the more tender touch of flesh." There was no shame in his smile, nor was there brag. It was more of a matter-of-fact smile. "But I was a brash man back then, impulsive, easily offended, and quick to anger. Wisdom was far beyond me, and given the chance, I never hesitated to defend my pride with steel—perhaps a bit too often at times." Again, unlike Skjor, Kodlak didn't shy from admitting his former weaknesses. To think a man, who so often preaches ¨find the calm in battle¨ would admit to once doing anything but.

"And the heart?" It was, after all, how the subject had started.

"Aye, the heart," he continued, gesturing toward the heart. "In my brash behavior, it seems I one day angered the wrong people, or perhaps my reputation grew to annoy the wrong people—who's to say. And then came the day I stood face to face with a dremora."

"You… fought a dremora?" Now, this is a story worth hearing—I've never heard of someone fighting a dremora before, barely even heard _anything _about them.

"That I did," he continued, "And what a battle it was. Truly horrifying creatures, dremoras are. Fierce warriors, wearing spiked armor and weapons of horror, designed to injure rather than kill. That he found joy in inflicting pain quickly became apparent to me, and I had no choice but to use it to my advantage—knowing he wouldn't go in for the kill until I was laying defeated, bleeding in the sand."

"So, how did you win?"

"Fear is their strongest weapon. Most warriors, no matter how skilled in combat, would freeze with fright in their presence. So he underestimated me, thinking I'd fear him when in truth, I did not. I defeated him, of course. And then my days continued. But before I knew it, he stood before me once again. And again we fought and again I defeated him, and again he'd reappeared, seeking me out in the ¨sea of sand¨."

"What?"

"It seems the enemies I had made, were still summoning him to end me for whatever transgression I had made. I realized this and left the caravans to, in turn, hunt them down for myself. Using contacts I'd made, and filling in the blanks on my own, it didn't take long for me to find the culprit behind it. A high-nosed nobleman whose daughter I had unknowingly bedded—yes, it's as storybook as it gets… In hindsight, I may have acted too hastily at the time, but I ended him and his goons without questions, thinking it was all over. But before long, the dremora appeared before me once again. And in stubborn anger, I defeated him once more."

"So he was still being summoned? But if you killed the noble—"

"Aye," Kodlak interrupted my interruption. "As you say, his summoning was still taking place. So again, I used my contacts to search for answers. And before long, I learned the nobleman had hired a redguard witch for the summoning. Working her foul magic against me, hidden and isolated from civilization in that barren land."

"I take it you found her?"

"That I did. It took every piece of coin I had, but I did. When I confronted her, she did nothing but laugh in my face. I still remember the smell of her blood as I freed her from life."

"You killed her?" Witch or not, resorting to murder seemed way out of character for Kodlak.

"As I said, I was a brash young man back then," and again his face showed no embarrassment nor shame, still settled on the matter-of-fact look. "And reflecting on one's past is a powerful tool for future choices. For only the greatest of fools can become the wisest of men. I never did strive to become the first, but I never realized I had until I became the latter." Now that sounded more like Kodlak, but for once, I actually understood what he meant.

"But then, the heart?" Again, I asked. It felt like Kodlak had gone off track, but it was always hard to tell when it came to him—he rarely spoke without reason.

"Aye," he continued. "So I slew the witch, and believing the dremora curse had been lifted from me. And once again I moved on with my life. But it seemed fate had chosen differently, and before long I realized the reason behind the witch's laughter—as the dremora stood before me once again."

"Stood before you once again? But you killed the witch?"

"There could only be one explanation—the curse behind his summoning was bound to my death. And as he failed in his quest to end my life, he'd simply reappear at the original place of his summons to once again continue his hunt for me…" I don't know why he paused, but it wouldn't surprise me if he did so simply for dramatic effect. "And hunt me he did. Across the seas of sands, over mountains, grasslands, into cities, and through villages. Immortal being without the need for rest, food, nor thirst, he sought me relentlessly. And if he somehow died on his search, he'd only start again at his original place of summons." He made a gesture with his hand before continuing. "I realized it didn't matter where I went, eventually, he'd find me. And after every defeat by my hand, he'd sooner or later return to face me once again. For a long time, I traveled the dunes in search of safety, sleeping with one eye open every night, knowing he was never far behind me. It was beyond tiresome. And with every time I defeated him, I realized only more that he'd one day best me, be it by a mistake or time, he'd best me."

"Then how did you stop him?"

"I still believe I didn't." Again he gestured to the heart. "In our final encounter, I'm afraid rage got the best of me. Tired by his neverending presence, tired of sleeping with one eye open, tired of always being on the run, I fought him one last time. And as he lay bleeding in the sand before me, I tore through his armor and ripped out his heart—an act out of petty, and childish, rage. And as I held his beating heart in front of his burning eyes to taunt him, death gripped his mind. The fire in his eyes ceased, one last breath, and his coal-black skin whitened and turned to ash. And as his body crumbled to dust as I had seen it do so many times before, to my surprise, his heart remained in my hand. Beating…" He mimicked the experience with his hand before lowering it. "I haven't seen him ever since. And so, I've kept his heart with me. At first, as a warning to my enemies, but as of late, it has become a reminder to myself that not all enemies can be defeated by death alone."

_Haven't seen him since?_ "You're saying—"

"Aye," he answered my question before I even had time to ask. "It is my belief that he is alive, right there, on that plate. For was he not, he'd be searching for me still. And no longer in my prime, he would've bested me long before I even got to proudly call myself _Harbinger._"

I knew fairly little about magic, almost none at all to be honest. But the little I did know always seemed to involve curses; lycanthropy, witches, Kodlak's dremora. _No wonder most people are against magic users._

_¨If you ever face a mage, close the distance fast and hit hard…¨_ Skjor's voice spoke in my mind, _"…That's the only strategy you'll ever need.¨ _I might not know much about magic, but at least I know how to fight the ones using it. In theory.

"There is wisdom in my old tale," he continued, "which brings me back to my original reason for calling you here." He rose from his desk and walked over to join me by his corner table.

Of course, there'd be _wisdom_ in his story, he wouldn't have told it if there wasn't. This was one of the things I found annoying with Kodlak—there was always a deeper meaning.

"Which is?" I asked as he took his seat. I didn't mean to ask with skepticism, but that was the tone that took shape in my voice. Kodlak seemed to ignore it.

"I allowed anger, and fear, to rule my heart back then," he began. "And at the time, those emotions alone determined my actions far more than I cared to admit to myself…" I already had the feeling I knew where he was going with this… "…And now I fear you are beginning to head down a similar path." …exactly.

He gave me the same speech after Sjor died: _Revenge is never the right way. Hatred clouds one's judgment. Anger is dangerous, especially for people like us._ And now he clearly intended to repeat the lesson.

"Krev needs to be stopped," I said before he could continue, and his eyes responded that he'd listen. "She's too dangerous. She killed Skjor—acted as if it had been nothing—and back then, both Aela and I didn't stand a chance against her."

"I'm not disagreeing her danger. But—" Kodlak said.

"You weren't there," I interrupted. "You didn't see what we saw, the things she had done. And… _did_." I still hadn't told anyone what she did to Ysolda, don't think I ever could. Kodlak remained silent, and for a moment so did I. "She was laughing all the time, you know. As we fought. As if it was a game to her. I… fought hard, but I don't think she ever even tried. She was just… laughing." Pictures, memories from our encounter. The feeling of uselessness dug itself into my stomach, as it had back then. "She'll come for all of us… Unless we stop her, she'll come for all of us. I'm sure of it."

"You sound afraid," Kodlak said, eyebrows low on his forehead. I didn't realize I did, surely didn't mean to.

"You _know _what she did," I said, returning his hard look. "You _know _how far she went as she set her eyes on me. She…" I couldn't bring myself to complete the sentence—_She killed Ysolda_—so other than in my head, I didn't. "And no one's heard from Aela ever since Skjor. Who's to say Krev hasn't gotten her already? And she won't stop until she's killed us all."

"You don't know that. And Aela can take care of herself," Kodlak said with a calm voice.

"Oh, but I do," I said with less of one. And by the way Aela had acted when Skjor died, I wasn't so sure she could. "I don't know the Silver Hands reasons for hunting werewolves. Maybe they do it for honor? For Ysgrammor? But she's not like the Silver Hand… no, she _isn't _a Silver Hand—she's just using them. Her reason for hunting us is for nothing more than self-pleasure, joy. And like I said, she won't stop!"

"If so. It is true the Silver Hand has been a thorn in our side for a long time. But don't believe I don't see what you're getting at," Kodlak said, he had that I-see-it-in-your-eyes look on his face. For some reason, it made me think of the first time I met him.

_Hm. Yes… perhaps… a certain strength of spirit._

Back then it had felt as if he stared straight into my soul. It almost frightened me, the way his old eyes studied me. And now, I felt the same. But did he? See what I was getting at?

"You speak as if stopping Krev was for the sake of honor—for the Companions—and your reasoning is sound." _He did, didn't he?_ "Perhaps my teachings haven't fallen on deaf ears, after all, you've chosen your words wisely. But I fear you're telling me what you believe me to want to hear, in order to sway my mind in your favor." His expression hadn't changed at all during our conversation. "Which is why I have decided Vilkas and Farkas will handle her, when the time comes."

_What?_

"By Ysmir they won't!" I snapped. If anyone was to get Krev, it was me! That he even recommended differently was an insult to everything I was, to Ysolda! To my unborn child!

"Don't take me for a fool, boy." His tone was harsh, yet he remained as calm as always. "I know your reason for seeking her is revenge. Which is _precisely _why I cannot allow you to seek her out. It has gotten _too _personal. And it's clear to me now your reason is no longer for the sake of honor, nor glory."

"Honor and glory?!" Never thought I'd raise my voice against Kodlak. "Vilkas and Farkas?! No! She's _mine_!" I was no longer going to hide my intent.

"Sit down, son," Kodlak said with a stern look in his eyes. I never even realized I had stood up, never realized I had clenched my fists on the table either until I looked down on them. It still surprised me how quickly anger grew inside us werewolves. And how _out of our control_ it was—or, out of _my_ control, it was.

"No," I said. "Krev is mine. And you're not sending Vilkas and Farkas after her without me! You don't even know where she is."

"And you do?" He asked calmly. And to answer the question: I didn't—which must have shown on my face as he continued, "If what you're saying is true—that Krev will search for us—then Vilkas will find her as she does so. And when he does—"

"She won't search us out!" I interrupted. Kodlak was more than getting on my nerves now. "She'll draw us out! One by one! Like she did Aela! Like she did _me_!"

"Your tone is unbefitting a warrior of your standard." How did he always keep so calm? Even during arguments like these? "You are a strong warrior. And you know I would not deny you battle, had I not good reason to. But this is too personal for you. Had it not been your family—"

"But it _was _my family!" I snapped. Kodlak might hold the aspect of ¨too personal¨ against me, but for me, it was nothing more than demanding reason! He may think what he wants, but she was _mine_!

"There is no honor in vengeance," he said, no, told. "Some enemies are better left for others."

"_For others?"_ I quoted. _"Vengeance?_ I know you try to _behave _the wise one. But how can you _possibly _try to lecture me on _vengeance _when you yourself have the heart of your enemy literally served on a platter on your table!" A jerk of my arm as I gestured to the dead heart, beating on its plate, before turning back to face him. "And what about their honor?! Ysolda's?! Jida's! Don't they deserve to be avenged?!"

"As I said…" still keeping a calm face. "…That is precisely why I won't allow it."

"But that's not up to you!" I was biting down so hard it was shocking any words left my lips at all. I couldn't tell if he fell silent for my voice, or for my point—his eyes stayed focused on me. But before the tension got too heavy, he drew a breath to speak.

"All Companions, are free to choose their own way towards honor. But as Harbinger, I feel the obligation to guide you young ones to see the struggle taking place within yourselves, and fight it."

_That's it, was it not? I've had it! There was always a fight ¨within¨ with Kodlak. A ¨lesson¨ or ¨wisdom¨ or any piece of reason not to fight! Why, by Ysmir, was he so focused on emotions when the real enemy was out there?! How could he possibly know?! No, old man! I've had it!_

"You!—" I began, fully intending to speak my mind, as I felt my fingerbones gnarl as I unwillingly clenched my fists even further, before being interrupted.

The sound of Kodlak's chamber-door suddenly swung open, banging against the walls as we both turned out head toward the door opening, by the haste, me before Kodlak.

_Aela!_

She stood… faltering? Still holding one of the double doors as she leaned against one of the sides of the doors, catching her breath. She looked rough, weathered. All dirty armor and smeared old facepaint in her face and hair. It didn't show, but I could smell blood. She was breathing heavily. It took a _lot _to take the breath out of a lycanthrope—had she been running? How far?

"Aela," Kodlak said. He actually sounded more surprised than worried—had he expected her gone? Like Skjor?

She took a calming breath before lifting her head to set her sight on me. _On me?_

My thoughts against Kodlak had washed away. She looked… set? Intent? The look in her eyes clearly said she was here for me, no question about that.

She drew another breath just as I took my hands off the table, a breath clearly intended for speech.

"I found her."


	35. Aela

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took as long as it did, but it's finally done.
> 
> I had some personal problems and trouble sleeping for a while, so I didn't get much writing done for a long time. But I'm back into it now. I've even written 4 chapters that'll take place way ahead in the story, so I haven't been busy doing nothing. It was only this chapter that I got stuck on.
> 
> I had intended for it to be a bit longer, but the way it ends was so fitting that I had to leave it where it was. In other words: I'm one third done with the next chapter. Hopefully, it won't take as long for me to finish that one.
> 
> Hope you like it and enjoy.

"I found her."

Those were the only words I needed to hear to leave Kodlak's table—and company—for Aela's side. She watched me as I walked across the room toward her—my steps softened by the red carpet beneath my feet, the one with Wuuthrad embroidered on it in gold-yellow thread. Our mantles looked the same.

"You're making a mistake, boy." It wasn't a plea, but a statement. That's Kodlak for you—¨pretending¨ to know what you didn't. "Vengeance, fueled by anger, is a dangerous thing… especially for people like us," he said to my back. I paid him no heed, my mind was set, and so I walked on. "And you, Aela," he continued in a softer voice, surely solely because I gave him no response. "It gladdens me to see we feared the worst in vain, but how come we have not seen you sooner?"

"Don't play coy, old man..." Aela answered. '_Old man,'_ eh, I liked that. There was a draw of breath in her voice. Or perhaps I imagined it as I stopped by her side—didn't matter. "…I've been taking the fight to the Silver Hand."

Kodlak gave her a long look before continuing, "Aye, to avenge Skjor." There was a hint of disagreement in his voice, perhaps even disappointment. "I believed as much," he continued with contemplation rather than judgment. "But you could've at least let us know how you were. As for the Silver Hand, we could've helped."

"This is our fight, Kodlak," she said with an exhausted yet serious look on her face. "'_Every Companion their own.'_ Isn't that what you use to say?"

"For honor, yes," Kodlak responded with a sigh, "Mind you, it's no business of mine what each Companion does in the name of honor. But you have taken more lives than honor demanded—"

"I only care for _one _life," Aela abruptly interrupted. From the tone in her voice I'd say her mind was set—and so was mine. "And as I said: I _found _her. And this time, I'm not letting her get away." There was a cold moment in the room as the two of them exchanged another long look. I don't think either of them would fold had it continued, but Aela ended it by straightening herself to speak. "You're not talking me out of avenging Skjor."

"Nor me," I added.

Kodlak's eyes went from Aela to me, lingered for a moment, and then back to Aela. "It is not the act of vengeance I am against, but the motivator that fuels it. Anger is a double-edged sword, and its wielder runs as great a chance of injury as its opponent."

This again? I thought, tightening my jaw.

"Double-edged or not, it's still a weapon," Aela said with confidence. "And you don't need to worry about me. I can wield it."

"It's not you, I worry about. You know better. But the _boy_."

Enough with this, I knew where Kodlak was going. And knowing Kodlak, he might just succeed. "We don't have time for this," I interrupted. "Do I need to pack?" I asked to draw Aela's attention.

And draw her attention I did, as Aela turned her head to look at me. There was a studying look in her eyes, almost confused. Had Kodlak's words gotten to her?… "It's about a day away," she finally said. …Hardly.

"Then we're leaving." I turned to exit the room before any more words could be said. The sooner we got on our way the better—the sooner we got away from _Kodlak_, the better.

"Make it quick," she said behind me as I began walking off.

"Aela," Kodlak interrupted calmly. "What did you do with Skjor's body?" That question stopped me in my tracks as I tilted my head to listen over my shoulder—I had been wondering the same.

There was a brief silence before she answered, "I gave him a Companion's funeral."

Again the silence returned to linger until Kodlak lowered his head and interrupted it with soft spoken words. "Good. He deserved as much."

"He deserved more," Aela said as she turned away from him. "Kodlak," she excused before following me out of the room.

* * *

I finished doning my armor, tightening the last straps by the side of my waist as Aela stood in my door opening and watched me as I began to pack. Like earlier, she was leaning against the side of the door opening, but she seemed more composed—she had her arms crossed now, as she did in most of my memories of her.

_About a day away._

No need to pack much then—we wouldn't be needing much more than the tent and some food. If it was more than a day away that meant we'd need to spend at least one night out camping, perhaps two considering the walk back.

The walk back? Were we even coming back? Did I care to? If I manage to avenge Ysolda—to kill Krev—what did I have to return to? No… as long as I avenge Ysolda, I don't care if I come back or not.

"What's stalling you?" Aela asked strictly.

"Sorry," I said. "I got lost in thought."

"Well, focus. I need you sharp on this."

"I know," I answered, returning to packing.

As if I didn't know that. More than anything, I knew I needed to be at my best for this. No hesitation this time, no fear. And judging by the way I feel right now, I don't think that'll be an issue. It won't. No. It won't.

"So…" Alea uttered, "You wanna tell me what that was about?"

"What?" I'd rather not get into it, and I won't be needing the lantern.

"Don't be coy. I could hear you arguing with the old man before I entered the basement."

"It's nothing…" I really didn't feel like getting into it, besides, better if Aela didn't know. She might just change her mind about bringing me if she knew, or perhaps it'd motivate her, even more, to take me with her. After all, she and Skjor were… she at least has to understand more than the others about how I feel. "…Just Kodlak being Kodlak."

"Kodlak being Kodlak?" she repeated.

"Yeah," I said, tightening the rolled-up tent onto my rucksack. "You know how he is."

"Kodlak being Kodlak," she, again, repeated seemingly to herself before falling silent.

Aela had her head tilted away as I glanced at her. She had a stern face, a line between her eyebrows, and thin, pressed together, lips as if she was chewing on the inside of one of them. She was clearly deep in thought. I wonder what she's thinking of: Skjor? Kodlak? The task at hand? Krev?

I took my mind off Aela and tightened the last leather strap, threw the rucksack over my shoulder, and turned for her. "I'm done," I said, drawing her out of her thoughts. "Let's go."

Aela gave me a quick look before she turned toward the hallway and walked off, leading the way. I was quick to follow.

I kept close behind Aela as we walked through the candlelit hallway. There was purpose in our steps and I already felt a slight turmoil take shape in my stomach—vengeful excitement behind darkened anger, tightening the muscles in my jaw.

Krev… We're coming for you.

The staircase door opened before we had reached it, and I wasn't surprised to see who walked through it—Vilkas. How annoying. Why is it that whenever Kodlak takes the time to _lecture me with his infinite wisdom,_ Vilkas soon decides to do the same? And I got the feeling his sudden appearance wasn't for any other reason.

"Aela. I was glad when I heard of your return," he said as he stopped in front of us, keeping himself between us and the door as he eyed the two of us. For a second, his eyes lingered on the rucksack over my shoulder before returning to Aela. "But by the looks of it, the two of you are leaving already."

"Vilkas," Aela greeted. She sounded on guard, careful even. The same tone she used when the two of them argued their differences on the wolf-blood. "Yes. I'm only here to pick something up."

Vilkas looked over at me, slowly turning serious as we held eye contact—he knew, as much as me, what she meant. "You reek of blood," he said, returning his eyes to Aela as he spoke. And there it was, the same, disagreeing, tone in his voice as Aela's, with a discreet hint of hostility.

"And I'm out for more."

"No, you're not," Vikas said. "You've done your part. If you know where Krev is, tell me. I've spoken to Kodlak, Farkas and I will handle her."

"By Shor you won't," I started. I already had this discussion with Kodlak, I wasn't about to have it again—I no longer have the patience for it.

"Yes, we are," Vilkas hastily interrupted before I could continue, "The two of you are in too deep. It's gotten _too _personal."

"Which is precisely why this is our fight," Aela answered before I had the chance to.

"And I've fought her before," I said. "Aela and I stand a better chance than—"

"Aela can't keep on fighting," Vilkas interrupted. "And _you_, you know very well why you shouldn't fight her right now."

Why? I thought as I felt my jaw tighten. Because she killed my family? Is that it? Is that really the argument he decided to go with? Isn't that argument the exact answer to why I _should _go after her? It's more than any reason I'd need. The _only _reason I need.

"I'll fight until Skjor is avenged," Aela stated, taking Vilkas's attention away from me.

"Skjor?" Vilkas said as if he had forgotten Aela's reason for fighting. "You've been gone for too long, Aela. You don't have the full picture, this is no longer about Skjor alone. Krev—" Vilkas gestured toward me, I knew he was about to tell Aela the one thing I didn't need her to know. I wouldn't let him.

"Krev's ours! And if—"

"Of course it is!" Aela snapped. "Skjor's the _only _reason I've been out there! The _only _reason I've been hunting the Silver Hand! For months! All in order to find Krev! And the ONLY reason I came back here, was because!…" Aela fell silent mid-sentence as she stopped herself from continuing. She clearly struggled with keeping silent, as the muscles in her jaw kept working as if they were still shaping words, but she quickly bit shut and looked down at her fists as she slowly unclenched them to calm herself.

There was a lingering silence as Vilkas and I looked at Aela, waiting for her to calm. I could almost hear our heartbeats in the silence, beating the tension away as they slowed.

"This is our fight, Vilkas," I said as I looked back at him. Somehow I felt calmer after Aela's outburst. "You're not talking us out of this. Kodlak already tried."

A brief look before he answered. "I'm afraid of what will happen if I don't." His expression was still hard, and he steadily remained standing between us and the door.

"We can handle Krev."

"That's not—"

"You know," I interrupted. "No matter how much Kodlak argues against our decisions, disapproves of them, in the end, he never hinders us to do what we believe is right. Because he honors the core of what we are: Companions. Every man and woman their own—we all choose our own path toward honor." I knew that to be the truth. Kodlak most certainly had the power to stop us if he so saw fit, but he never did. Never. And Vilkas always cared more for our customs than I, not that I didn't, I do, and I could tell by his face that the argument took. It was a strange sensation, I rarely got the upper hand with Vilkas, be it dueling or arguing—especially arguing. "Step aside, Vilkas. There are no ranks here."

"I know our ways, but this is about more than that." I never claimed he didn't, but it seemed the _reminder _had taken hold—even though he hid it well, his voice had taken on a tone of desperate _pleading _rather than the earlier tone of _telling_. "You're a werewolf, these kinds of things are dangerous to us."

"I don't care about that." I'm not entirely sure I knew what he meant, but I kept a straight face—as I'd said: I didn't care how dangerous Krev was. The only thing I cared about right now was avenging Ysolda. "If our roles were reversed? If you were in my shoes? What would you do?" If not reason did him in, then how about empathy?

He didn't answer, yet he remained serious as his unfaltering eye contact remained. But I wasn't about to fold now—I was winning—so I glared back just as serious. If this continued, things might turn ugly. And if it came to that… Well… I haven't defeated Vilkas once, and I doubt I'd be able to now. But I knew he was faltering, and slowly I realized I was right as he closed his eyes for a second and let out a surrendering sigh. "…I'd kill her." I thought as much.

"Then step aside. You know I need to do this."

"Aye," he uttered reluctantly, taking a single sideways step to leave his ¨post,¨ leaving the way to the door open for us. "Just… don't lose yourself."

"We won't," I said as I took no time to walk past him, Aela following close behind.

"He only did that because he cares about you," Aela said as we climbed the stairs.

"I know."

_¨You're like a brother to me.¨_ Vilkas had told me that shortly after Skjor died—the memories were still fresh in my mind. I knew he had been sincere—heavy, are the words of Companions. Aela was right.

Tilma was cleaning the floors in the meadhall as we entered. I gave her a nod as we passed—the sooner we left the better, I didn't want to spend any more time on chit-chat. She acted as if she hadn't noticed us enter, ignoring us. I'm sure she must have heard most of the arguing and decided to stay out of it.

"We'll leave through the underforge," Aela said as we walked across the room. "Walking through the city will take too much time—it's shorter."

Shorter? The tunnel from the underforge opens to the… "We're heading east?" I asked, slowing my pace to turn my attention to Aela as she walked past me. The last track I had of Krev was to the north-west, where I had found Ysolda—the thought weighed heavily upon me, rekindling dark emotions. Why east? Did Krev really move around that much? But it was the only explanation, why else would it be shorter?

"Yes," Aela said as she reached for the door handles of the main door. "Same place we found Skjor."

What? I thought, stopping fully in my tracks. Same place we found Skjor? Why, in the name of Ysmir, would she return there? And how did Aela know where to find her? Something didn't add up, I could feel it. _¨The ONLY reason I returned here was because…¨_ she had said during her outburst. What had stopped her from completing that sentence? What wasn't she telling me?

"Enough with that dumb look of yours, you coming?" Aela asked impatiently, holding the doors open for the cold winter air to enter.

"Yes," I answered as I composed myself. We can talk while walking, my questions can wait. "I'm ready."


	36. Wounded Wolf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me long enough, sorry about that, but it's finally done.
> 
> We're getting close to the end of my first book now. The next chapter will be the final one, I'm quite excited about it. I won't promise when I'll get that one done since I've been quite bad at keeping up with my schedule lately, I've had some things going on in my life and whatnot. I'm sure you understand.
> 
> That said, I hope you like this one.  
I'd love to hear what you think.  
Happy mid-summer.  
And Enjoy.

Even in mid-winter, the air wasn't that cold. Well, it was cold, far beyond freezing really, but not cold enough that any self-respecting Nord would dare complain—these are, after all, the winters that shaped us since we were given birth. Even while setting, the sun offered a shy trace of warmth on our shoulders, but the fields of Whiterun always had a fierce wind about it—biting at our cheeks with the sharp slap from a bundle of vines.

Days like these always reminded me of how practical the fursuit was, with its double layer of wolf-fur, but no matter how tight I wrapped my coat around my neck and head, the wind still found a bite beneath my eyes. That's the one thing we Nords _did _dare to complain about—the winter-breath of Kyne, Warrior-Wife of Shor, for _she _blew the frost into our world, mercilessly striping the land of life the same way she breathed life into it once she saw fit for spring to arrive.

Strange how we'd refuse ourselves to complain against the statics of Nirn, yet openly complained against the actions of a god. Perhaps it was because her winter-breath was a test? A test only the hardiest of her creations survived. And so we complained, for what child does not complain against the tests of their parents? Just like how we praised her, once she granted us spring.

Why did I philosophize with the idea of religious meaning behind the wind? I never cared much for religion—and I especially never cared much for philosophy. Sure, I did have an interest in the gods once, when I was still a child and my mother told me stories about them. But I've never seen a god, and so my interest had faded. Perhaps Vilkas, or Kodlak, had rubbed off on me without my realizing? Must be. But if anything, toying with the thought made it seem like time flowed quicker.

The city was already far behind us, standing tall and proud on its hill in the distance. Thankfully, it was easy to walk, the snow never got too deep out here on the tundra, the wind always blew away the upper layers, forming sharp dunes of white over the fields until it looked like the waves of a frozen sea.

Comfortably, the wind slowly subsided the closer we got to the forest—tall pines and firs swaying as they redirected the wind toward the sky, hindering its continuous path. There used to be a stream here, but frozen solid and covered by snow it was hard to use it for guidance. I could only hope Aela knew the area well enough even without the river. Although I had been in this area once before, I'd get lost without her—once we entered the forest, everything looked the same for me, and once we did enter the forest, the snow got deeper. It was harder to walk here, slower, and heavier. It almost became a chore.

"Hold up," Aela said behind me. "I need a break."

"A break?" I said, stopping in front of her as I turned to face her. Since when did Aela ever need a ¨break?¨

"And it'll be dark soon," she continued, looking around the treetops, ignoring, or ignorant of, the tone in my question. "We'll set up camp here."

"It's not dark yet. And we're only a few hours away? I can keep going." The only thing I wanted was to get to Krev as soon as possible—dark or not, didn't matter.

"Well **I** can't," she said with a bite as she turned her head toward me. "And we'll need to be rested for what is to come."

"Rested? I don't care—"

"You get started on setting up the camp, I'll gather some wood," she interrupted, taking her bow off her shoulder as she turned her attention away from me and headed for the woods.

I watched her as she disappeared between the threes. This was unlike her—¨Well **I** can't¨—I'd think she wanted to get to Krev as soon as possible. Like me. But now that I thought of it, she had looked out of breath again, as she had when she first showed up in Kodlak's chamber. I couldn't rid myself of the feeling that something was wrong.

It doesn't matter, I thought as I kicked the snow and swung my rucksack off my back and threw that into the snow too. We shouldn't waste time here when we knew where Krev was—camping and resting as if we were on some casual hunting trip.

"¨Well **I** can't. It'll be **dark **soon. I need a **break**,¨" I mumbled through clenched teeth as I walked in a square, trampling snow to flatten it for the tent. I felt like punching a **tree**, but what purpose would that serve? It'd sure feel good though.

And why didn't Aela seem to be in a hurry? She had been walking behind all this time, almost hesitant in every step. Didn't she want to avenge Skjor? Didn't she want to get to Krev as soon as possible? But the way she had snapped when Vilkas tried to stop us? She had to want this?

A repetitive mindset as I angrily used the flat side of my axe to hammer down the wooden spikes in the frozen ground, raising the tent. I just couldn't understand her right now.

I brushed away some snow from a large stone and sat down after I finished with the tent, feeling the cold air settle around me as I decided to wait for Aela. The cold slowly crept into my skin as I sat, biting—she's taking longer than I had expected. I'd start a fire, but the only things around were snow, frozen trees, and bushes—nothing that burned easily.

I took off my gloves and blew air into my fists for warmth, rubbing them together as I rested my elbows on my knees. But no amount of rubbing seemed to keep them warm for long. I felt my ring with my thumb; slowly spinning it around my finger.

Ysolda… She was really gone.

I reached for the necklace around my neck and lifted my chin as I pulled it over my head, feeling the weight of the chain as I placed the ring in the center of my hand. A circle of gold. _Her _ring.

It felt warm in my palm. Almost radiant. Residue heat from being against my chest, I guess. Touching her ring used to be calming, and painfully sad, but right now it only gave off the opposite feel; tightness in my chest, anger pointing its finger, disturbing, and… a tad bit of guilt. _More _than a 'tad.' I could feel the wolf begin to stir within me as I held her ring. Awakened. Enraged. So close to the 'surface' it felt like all I needed to do was relax and he'd show himself. And tear out from within.

I'll avenge you. Both of you. By Ysmir I'll avenge you and I don't care if it's the last thing I do. Krev deserves everything that's coming for her. And more. She'll **die **for what she's done.

I heard a twig snap, pulling me from my thoughts.

"What's that?" Aela said, approaching from behind me.

"Nothing," I answered, quickly tucking the ring back against my chest, inside my armor and tunic, as I put the necklace back around my neck. A few breaths to calm the anger. "What took you so long?"

She gave me a brief, suspicious look as she walked past me. She couldn't have seen Ysolda's ring, but she must have noticed I tried to hide something. Something I didn't feel like sharing. "I found some rabbit tracks. Decided I'd hunt it down," she finally said, seemingly giving me a pass. At least she had some dry wood. And that rabbit over her shoulder.

"How about a fire?" I asked, rubbing my hands together again.

She dropped the wood to the ground and reached over her shoulder. "Get started on that and I'll take care of the fire," she said as she tossed the dead rabbit by my feet. "You do remember how to skin a rabbit, right?"

"Of course," I said as I rose. Grabbed the rabbit. And turned my back to Aela as I placed it on the stone I had been sitting on.

Truth be told, it had been a while since I skinned anything. I might be a bit rusty but by what I remember, it wasn't that hard—more common sense than anything, really.

I turned the rabbit over to give it a quick study. It was skinny. Expected; not much food in the winter. But any meat is meat. There was a bit of blood on both sides of its torso. And small holes: An arrow through the side, I reasoned. Best get to work. The prep work was easy: Off with the feet.

I drew my dagger from my belt and held the hind legs down with one hand as I pressed the edge of the blade against one of the Achilles-tendon, cutting through one before the other. Next, I cut through the skin around the joints, revealing the bone beneath. I put the blade against the joint and pressed down against the stone, breaking through the cartilage. Done right, they'll snap off as easily as breaking chicken-legs apart.

I did the same to the front paws. They came off just as easily. And with a feetless carcass in front of me, the prep work was done. This is where the skinning begins.

There are many ways to do this, but with my finger strength, simply jerking it off would be the fastest way. But for that, a gentle touch of knifework was still needed.

One cut around the neck, all the way around, followed by a cut down the stomach. From the cut at the throat all the way down to the anus. Not too deep, that's important; or I'd puncture the intestines and spoil the meat. That's the last thing you want.

I turned the rabbit over and grabbed it firmly by the head, and with my other hand, I dug my fingers under the skin by its neck. One quick jerk and it'll all come off. Like ripping off a too tight a glove. The fresher the kill, the easier the skin would come off. If one waited too long, and the body began to dry up, it'd be a lot harder. The skin would stick to the muscle as if glued stuck. There's a word for that, but I couldn't remember it. But as I was about to pull, something stopped me. Something that made me clench my teeth.

This is what _she _did. What she _does_… isn't it? Krev. The Skinner.

How many times had she skinned something? Someone? I couldn't help but think: Was _this _how she had done it? With Ysolda? Quick? A single jerk? I begged it was. But I got the horrid feeling she had her own way of doing it. Cutting away at the skin one piece at the time. One piece at the time… That's what she had been doing the first time I saw her. When we found Skjor. That piece of skin in her hand. Bloodied fur. No. There's no way she had done it quickly. Because she enjoyed it. She _enjoyed _taking her time.

I heard a crack—the rabbit's skull breaking in my hand. Curse her, I thought, forcing myself to calm, and gripped the skin tight with my right hand and jerked it. With a tearing sound, the skin came off. But it still stuck to the legs. I grabbed the stumps, one at a time, and twisted them with both my hands—like wringing water out of a rag—that made the skin loosen. Another hard jerk and the entire skin came off in a single piece. Leaving behind a red-skinned carcass. Fresh red muscle. The scent of blood. The picture awakened memories. Horrid ones.

Curse her, my mind repeated as I took the carcass to the stone and turned my dagger to its belly. A quick slit down the stomach opened it up. Again, not too deep as not to puncture the intestines. I pressed my thumb inside the ribs and took a firm grip as I dug out the intestines with my other hand. The inside was still warm and I never got used to the smell of guts; bitter, heavy, and foul in my nose. Whatever remains my fingers couldn't pull out, I scraped out with my dagger. With the intestines gone, I pressed the edge of the dagger against the side of the spine, one by one cutting out the ribs. It's a satisfying sound, breaking the small ribs; almost like cracking one's knuckles.

Ribs out, I turned the rabbit over, so the head was to the right. I grabbed the torso and brought the dagger to its neck, just beneath the base of the skull, and pressed down hard. With a crack, the dagger went through the neckbone and scraped against the stone as I cut through the remaining flesh and tendons until the head came off.

Cutting against bone tends to dull one's blade, which is why you'd usually use an axe against wood to get through the bones. But this dagger is forged in the Skyforge—There's a reason it's referred to as ¨Eternal steel:¨ It'd take a lot more than stone and bone to dull its edge.

All done. A good skinning. All that's left is to clean the corpse. I grabbed a fistful of snow and brushing away the blood that had begun to dry, cleaned the corpse inside and out. I grabbed another fist of snow and rubbed the blood out of my hands, wiped my dagger against the snow, and returned it to its hilt.

"All done," I said as I grabbed the rabbit by its hind legs and turned to face Aela.

She had a small fire going, leaning forward on her knees as she blew air into it. The fire crackled softly as she fed more sticks to it, and thick pale smoke rose from the wood. The kind of smoke only wet wood gives off. Still, she had managed to light it.

"Good enough," she said after a brief look, reaching out her hand toward me.

¨Good enough?¨ And how would she have done it better? Never mind, I thought, handing her the rabbit.

She drew her sword and stuck it into the snowy ground, leaning over the fire as she balanced the rabbit on top of it—spreading it over the fire on the handle.

The fire was taking off, keeping the growing darkness at bay, burning steadily as Aela added more wood to the pile.

I brushed away some snow and took a seat by the fire, warming my hands as I watched the flames lick the rabbit. Aela sat on her knees on the opposite side of the fire, moving her hands to her side as she began unbuttoning her chest plate. Getting ready for bed, I suppose. But why she'd unarmor herself for that, was unusual. The wilderness can be a dangerous place, and we always slept with armor on in the field—some of us even slept with armor on in Jorrvaskr.

She held the front plate in place as she leaned backward on her knees, loosening the last button as the backplate fell to the snow, and leaned back forward as she lifted off the front plate and put it aside. She continued to unbutton her wolf suit; starting by her shoulder as she worked her way down the short-sleeved arm. I could tell she wore a green rough-fabric shirt under the suit.

I looked down at my hands, rubbing them together in the warmth from the fire as Aela casually continued with her buttons. The rabbit was beginning to smell appetizing, but it was still far from done. Some spices would have been nice to add. Salt at least. But I suppose we'd have to eat it as is.

I looked back at Aela. She was done with the buttons and the split open wolf suit hung from her waist as she sat. She didn't stop as she grabbed her shirt by the bottom and lifted it.

"What are you doing?" I asked as she, to my surprise, began showing skin.

She looked over at me as she stopped just above her navel. "Never took you to be shy," she said matter of factly before she dismissed me and went on to lift her shirt over her head.

Shy? No. Wait! Was she serious?

I felt a sudden embarrassment shoot up my face, stunned as she stripped. My embarrassment grew as I knew my eyes would set on the obvious whether I wanted to or not—I'm a man after all. But to my surprise, they didn't. And the embarrassment faded as it turned into confusion, almost baffling me as I came to realize:

"You're wounded?" I said as Aela folded her shirt on the chest plate beside her.

Her lower torso was wrapped up, a bandage covering her lower ribs. That… explained some things: The smell of blood, why she had wanted a break, the 'out of breath,' and her holding her side.

"Didn't you notice?" she said with a degrading tone. Had she expected me to? "Kodlak and Vilkas noticed."

They had? Vilkas did comment on her smell, saying she'd ¨done her part.¨ Had he said that, knowing she was injured? But then how—

"If you still can't recognize someone's blood by smell, you're still a 'whelp' to me."

By smell? That's how they had known—and I hadn't. Seems I still have a lot to learn.

"No, I've…" I said, turning my attention to the fire, "…I've just been a bit lost in thought."

"I could tell…" I heard her say. "…You've barely said a word since we left."

I ignored her as I kept staring into the fire, watching the flames reach for the rabbit. It needed more fuel. I leaned over and reached for more sticks, added them to the fire, and watched as they began to burn. I hadn't noticed how quickly nightfall had arrived, but now, it was dark all around us. I could barely see the trees of the forest. And the sky being cloudy didn't help. Only the fire offered light. Soft, warm, yellow light.

The rabbit was sizzling, whistling, as the meat cooked. Better turn it over before it gets burnt. I looked over at Aela as I reached to turn the rabbit. She was carefully unwrapping the bandage around her torso as she sat. She didn't seem to be in pain, but the time and care she took said otherwise.

Her skin was pale, like most Nords, yet smooth and feminine. She was slender, yet at the same time muscular. Strong shoulders. It was rare to see a woman with a contoured abdomen. Every single muscle could be made out beneath her skin—the body of a warrior—and she didn't have an ounce of fat on her. But then again, fat never seemed to stick to us werewolves—even Farkas with his brute body type was pure muscle.

Her chestnut red hair hung over her shoulders, but it wasn't long enough to cover her breasts—not that she seemed to mind. She didn't seem to be the slightest embarrassed as she unwrapped the bandage. A true warrior. I doubt even being naked would hold her back the slightest in battle. Her breasts were smaller than I had imagined. Not that I've ever imagined them! But now that they were out there, how couldn't I? By Shor, perhaps I was the shy sort? I thought as I again became aware of the growing feeling of embarrassment.

"Ogling much?" she suddenly said without looking at me.

She had noticed? "Eh… no," I stuttered, embarrassed returning my attention to the fire. "Sorry… I didn't mean to."

"I thought you'd gotten used to seeing women—you're a married man."

A married man… About that…

The embarrassment faded and I looked down at my hand, turning my palm to face me as I looked at my ring. And touched it with my thumb.

"Or perhaps Ysolda, too, is the shy type. Sleeping with clothes on, is she?"

She didn't… We didn't…

Aela's body looked nothing at all like Ysolda's… Ysolda's skin had a pinker hue. Delicate to the touch. Smooth. Fragile. Her muscles were tender. Lean. Hidden away beneath curved skin. She had the natural shape of a woman: Beautifully unaltered by practice. Full lips. Happy eyes. A soft look. I think that's one of the things I liked the most about her; that no matter how strong a personality she had, she always seemed so fragile. As if I could break her simply by holding her too tight. As if she was in constant need of being protected.

Protected… And I had failed… At just that…

Why did I become a Companion in the first place?

"I can do this myself," Aela said, drawing me back to reality. "But it'd be easier if you helped."

"Helped?" The bandage was off, but I didn't see a wound.

"Just get over here."

I hesitated before I rose. What exactly did she need help with? But as I walked around the fire and saw her side, I saw the wound. It looked like a stab. Down below her armpit, between the bottom ribs, where the gap between her chestplate and backplate would be.

"Grab that," she said, nodding toward a canteen she had placed to warm by the fire.

"What do you want me to do?"

"It's easier if you clean the wound, " she said. "It'll hurt less if I don't have to reach around, myself."

Clean the wound? Me? I grabbed the canteen and sat down on my knees behind her.

She reached over her shoulder, holding a piece of cloth for me to take.

I took the cloth from her hand and wetted it with water from the canteen. Her back was muscular, for a woman. And now that I was closer, her skin wasn't as smooth as I had originally thought: Pale scars here and there, faded with time. They looked old. And some of them seemed to have come from… animals? Claws and teeth? Werewolves didn't scar, she must have gotten them before she turned. But some of the scars looked fresher. Especially a red one on the back of her right arm. Silver? Had she and Skor hunted the Silver Hand before? They must have. Only silver would cause scars to remain.

"Get on with it," she said, straightening her back as she lifted her left arm and reached under her hair, grabbing her neck.

I leaned to the side to take a look. It _was _a stab-wound, and her skin was bruised around it. A small amount of pus oozed from the wound, but it wasn't bleeding, nor did it look infected. It didn't smell infected either. It didn't look too recent, but not that old either. A week old, perhaps.

"It… doesn't look that bad," I said, bringing the cloth closer to the wound. Again I felt a little embarrassed, growing shyness as I became self-conscious of the thought of touching her naked skin. But I bit through it; if she didn't mind, then why should I? "This might hurt," I said as I reached forwards and carefully began wiping away the dried pus around her wound.

"It's not as deep as it looks," she said, tensing up as I touched her. I couldn't tell if it hurt, other than tensing up, she didn't show it. "Got between the ribs, but not deep enough."

¨Not deep enough.¨ It wouldn't be unlike Aela to undermine the seriousness of a wound, she was too proud to admit to weakness. Actually… it wouldn't be unlike _any _Companion to do so. But it actually didn't look as bad as I had originally thought, but then again, I'm no expert.

"Can you still fight? Use your bow?"

"Caught that rabbit, didn't I," she answered, slightly annoyed in her tone.

It wasn't a clear answer, but it was the answer I had expected. I couldn't help but think she'd become a liability. I rarely had such thoughts but… this was Krev we were going up against. We needed to be our best. And Aela clearly wasn't.

I poured water on the cloth to clean it before I again took it to her wound. This time she let out a grunt, more a 'slow pained hum' really, as I wiped directly on the wound. I tried to be careful, taking my time, as I wiped, but it had slightly begun bleeding. Only slightly. Other than that, it looked good.

"I think I'm done," I said, pouring more water on the cloth before I squeezed it out to dry.

Aela was still holding her neck as she dug for something in her belt pouch with her free arm. She grabbed whatever it was and reached up over her shoulder, holding a tiny bottle and a bandage roll between her fingers.

"Put this on the wound and bandage me up," she said.

"What is it?" I asked as I took the roll and bottle. It held a thick dark liquid, a color between brown and blue.

"A mixture of blisterwort, blue dartwing, and tree sap. It'll glue the wound shut, and helps with healing—my father's recipe."

"I'll have to remember that," I said as I opened the bottle. The liquid was ridiculously thick and sticky as I dug some out with my finger, and, as expected, it smelled strongly of tree sap, but also bitter and earthy from the blisterwort. "Your father taught you a lot?"

"More than anyone," she said, taking a deep breath as I reached for her wound.

"This'll hurt," I said. And, again, she tensed up as I, as gently as I could, squeezed the wound shut and smeared the sap on the wound. She was right. It did seem to 'glue' the wound shut. And unless she'd move around too much, it'd remain that way.

"There…" I wiped my fingers on my thigh and unrolled a part of the bandage, holding one end of it on the wound as I rolled the bandage along her back. "Take this," I said, handing her the roll on her right as it got under her arm. She grabbed the roll and worked it around her front, handing it to me on her left, after which I took it and, again, rolled it along her back to return it on her right. And so we continued, taking turns until the roll ended.

I rose as we had finished, stretching my legs. Sitting on my knees for that long had made them feel stiff. Aela was tying the bandage on her front as I looked over at the fire, heading for my seat.

"The rabbit," Aela said, indifferently reaching for her shirt.

"Shit," I exclaimed by impulse. I had entirely forgotten about the rabbit.

I hoped it wasn't too burned as I took it from the fire, tossing it into the snow as it burned my hands. Aela didn't even react as I buried my hands into the snow, she simply put on her green shirt as I cursed at myself.

"The fire needs wood," she added, watching me as she began buttoning her fur-suit.

My hands were fine as I looked at them, seems the first impression of heat had caused me to overreact. Nothing new there. I brushed the brief awkwardness aside and turned back to the fire, adding sticks from the depleting pile before I took a seat.

Aela reached for the rabbit as she had finished with the buttons, brushing off the snow before she drew her dagger and cut off some pieces. I watched her as she took her time, making a pile of meat in her lap. Once she had finished, she gave me a look before tossing me what was left of it.

Honestly, I wasn't that hungry, I thought as I drew my dagger to cut the meat. Ever since… well… I hadn't really had an appetite _since_. But I had to eat something. Even if my mind didn't want to eat, I knew my body needed food. Especially ¨this¨ body.

"You're different," Aela suddenly said with a contemplating tone over the shewing in her mouth. She did grab my attention. "You have a different look in your eyes. You used to talk more. And nag."

Nag? "I don't nag," I said, returning my attention to the rabbit.

"And I've yet to see you smile," she continued.

Smile. How could I? How could I smile after losing her? And… a child. Our child. How could I ever smile when whenever I thought of it, it hurt. Was it really the right thing: to keep Aela from knowing? No… better she didn't know. "Is that a bad thing?"

"No," she said without pause. "I like the new you. You're less annoying."

The _new _me… If only she knew how _cruel _that comment was. How painful it felt. I buried into myself, focusing on the rabbit as I ignored my feelings. Pushed them aside. They had no use now.

"Skjor always spoke highly of you, you know…" she continued as I tried to eat.

Skjor? ¨Always?¨

Aela was looking into the dark woods as I looked up at her, seemingly in thought as she held a piece of meat to her mouth. "Said there was something ¨special¨ about you… He didn't know what. And I don't see it."

"Why are you telling me this?" I asked. Skjor's death had pained me enough. But I did feel ashamed that _his _had now been overshadowed by _hers_… and Jida's. Still, I didn't need painful reminders.

"I thought you'd deserve to know. And Skjor would never have told you in person," she said, turning her head to me.

¨Deserve to know?¨ Skjor spoke highly of me? Funny. That's the opposite of how he portrayed himself. And he most certainly _never _spoke highly of _anyone_. No matter how hard I tried, he had always seemed disappointed. Always expecting more… ¨Special?¨ Didn't Kodlak once hint at the same?

"He said you ¨needed to experience death.¨" she continued. "And how you are now, I think he was right."

How I am now? ¨Think he was right?¨ Truly a dark comment. It made me feel uncomfortable. Almost angry. And Aela believed _Skjor's _death had caused it… His death might have broken the surface… Opened the door. But I hadn't walked through that door until— Should I tell her?

"Ironic," I said. "I don't think he intended his own death to be that experience."

Aela gave me a prolonged look. Seems she wasn't the only one who could ¨bite with a comment.¨ But I realized my mistake as she turned her head away, setting her eyes onto the darkness around us with a clenched jaw. _¨Ironic_,¨ that had been uncalled for. We had both lost people we loved, it was only cruel to rub it in each other's faces—and Aela didn't know. She didn't mean to insult. I had.

"I'm sorry—"

"I'll get more wood," she interrupted, pushing herself from the ground as she stood up with a single motion.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"You should get some sleep…" she said, again ignoring me, as she took her sword and sheeted it. "…I'll take first guard." She turned for the woods and walked away before I could say anything—she clearly wanted to be left alone.

Well… Now I just felt bad. And the rabbit tasted bland.

I sighed as I rose, my legs had gotten wet from the melting snow around the campfire. Nothing to do about that. I tossed the last sticks on the fire before I turned for the tent. I doubt I'll get much sleep tonight. Too much on my mind. I took out a blanket from my rucksack and rolled it out in the tent, lying down on my back as I finished. The inside of the tent was warm. Dark. Try to rest my eyes.

Tomorrow… Tomorrow I'll avenge you. _We'll _avenge you… All of you.

Ysolda… Jida… And Skjor.

And I don't care the slightest if we die trying.


	37. A Scar of Vengeance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh yes, boys and girls. It's here and done!
> 
> First off, I'm sorry it took so long, but it's not that I haven't been writing, quite the opposite: this chapter turned out a lot longer than I had originally thought. I aimed at around 8k… it came out as 14,5k So yeaah… This chapter alone makes up more than 10% of my entire fic.  
Had I split it up into 3-4k chapters (as my usual chapters are) I would easily have been able to release one chapter every other week, but I wanted this to be the final one so I couldn't do that.  
And I also intentionally spent more time on this one than any other, for I wanted it to be perfect, spoiler alert, it's not: I still feel I could improve upon it, and I'm not entirely sure if it's good or bad. But, as I said, I've kept you guys waiting long enough. I almost feel bad about it.
> 
> Well, I've thrown around enough excuses.  
This is usually when I say ¨Enjoy,¨ but I'm not sure that word fits this chapter. 
> 
> So I'll say only:  
I hope it's worth the wait and that it doesn't disappoint.

"We should leave our bags here," Aela said, "We're not far away now."

"I remember," I said, shrugging off my rucksack to lean it against the trunk of a fir.

Aela took a small wooden jar out of her bag before she placed it on the ground and removed the lid. She briefly dipped three of her fingers in it and drew them across her face, diagonally down from her forehead, right to left, all the way down to her neck. Three stripes of dark umbra blue—the same face paint she had back then.

She reached out her arm and handed me the jar as she had finished, turning to her bag as I took it.

Was it really necessary? Even if it was a tradition her father had taught her, I didn't see much of a purpose in it. Perhaps she did it to honor her father. Or was there another reason?

I dipped my thumb in the liquid, felt it stick to my finger, and looked at the black goo on my thumb. What type of face paint would suit me? Last time, I had drawn four fingers down my face. Would that do again?

No, I thought as I looked at my thumb. Today needed something darker. Something with meaning.

I wiped my thumb against the tree and scraped off the paint before I took my four fingers to the jar, dipped them, and clenched them together as I drew a wide thick line across my eyes—left to right—darkening them.

If my eyes were to glow today, as I knew they would… I wanted them to show.

I wanted them to be the last thing she'd see: them, _burning _with fury behind a layer of cold dark black.

The facepaint felt itchy as I looked around us: I remembered this place, recognized the opening, the placement of the trees. It was hard to make out with all the snow, but this… this opening was where we had been supposed to meet up with Skjor. On _that _day. The day I first met _her_.

The day I had been late.

That was months ago. It didn't feel that long, but it was. So much had happened since. Nothing good.

"This way," Aela continued impatiently, already leading ahead as she paced through the snow.

"I said I remember." I didn't mean to sound frustrated, but I was. We were here. This was it. This… was it. I could feel it: a warm sensation in my chest.

It was calm around us. A fine day. With white powdery snow. Black and grey stones. Deep green needle trees. A clear frozen blue sky. I could hear birds chirping, the wind blowing through the trees, the dry snow gnarling with our every step.

The calm of nature somehow made me feel unnerved. It shouldn't, but it was too good a day for a day that in no way was intended to be good.

Push the 'unnerveness' aside. Get sharp. I needed it.

This is the day for which I haven't been able to sleep. This is the day for which my wolf hasn't tormented me with nightmares. This is the day for which I've haven't cared to eat.

_For this _is the day I have been waiting for: wanted, _craved_.

_This… _is the day I'll have my _revenge_.

"Down," Aela said, stooping to a knee. "We're here. We should be careful."

I got down on my knee beside her. Felt the cold snow through my glove. The old fort had come into view, and as we moved closer, so did the surrounding camp.

Except for the thick coating of snow, it looked just how I remembered it: The wide stone wall surrounding the center fort, the old tents, stables, and training area. Nothing had changed. But something was wrong.

It looked abandoned.

There was no campfire. No horses. And all the tents were in the same places as last, some of them had even collapsed. The place looked abandoned to the point where even the snow was left untouched. And most importantly: there wasn't a single Silver Hand in sight. If Krev was here—why wasn't the Silver Hand?

I don't think anyone's been here since that day.

"Are you sure she's here?" I asked, turning my head to look at Aela. She looked as suspicious as I, but also confused; chewing slightly on her thumbnail.

"…Yes," she finally answered. But, to be honest, she didn't sound all that sure. "Let's move."

She drew her bow and quickly slid down the small slope, almost leaving me behind before I could react. A 'click' behind my back as I drew my axe and put it in front of me as I slid down after her. She had taken up a quick pace, putting some distance between us before I reached the end of the slope, and so I had to jog to catch up with her.

As I ran to catch up, my axe felt heavy in my arm as I held it from swinging forward and back. Heavier than usual. Don't tell me…

For the last couple of weeks—since I found Ysolda—I'd slept poorly; my appetite's been off; and I haven't taken part in any training. Even before Ysolda… Since Skjor… I haven't even dueled Vilkas since Skjor died.

Don't tell me…

I'm ¨_rusty?¨_

No. I'm imagining things. Overthinking. This body wouldn't weaken that quickly. And my axe isn't that much heavier. It's barely noticeable. It's the pressure of the day, playing with my mind. Nothing more.

I finally caught up as Aela slowed down, treading lightly as she got closer to the camp. She smelled the air, as I've seen her do many times before, as we carefully moved between the tents toward the center fort.

Being inside the camp only confirmed what we had expected from the distance: The camp _was _abandoned. there wasn't a single sign of anyone being here recently.

"Did it snow last night?" Aela asked quietly as she moved in front of me.

"Not much," I answered, thinking back at my night watch. Maybe it had snowed enough to cover any tracks, but not enough for them not to leave any dimples behind in the snow. And there were no dimples here. "You sure she's here?" I asked.

"Yes," she answered, instantly this time, without looking back.

She sounded certain—Why? Had she caught a scent? Seen something I hadn't?

I sniffed the air as we closed in on the center fort; deep, focused, and long breaths. It didn't feel as ridiculous as it used to feel. But I didn't smell anything. Nothing but… cold air, the bitter scent of juniper from the surrounding firs, the sharp scent of stone, and… leather and steel—from Aela.

What did Krev even smell like? I didn't remember. From that day I only remember the smell of rust, blood, and iron from that torture-chamber; the smell of decaying corpses, guts, and the musky scent of fur from that ¨werewolf-chamber;¨ and that overwhelming smell of copper and iron-red, slaughter, and death from that _hellish _corridor straight out of Oblivion—Skjor's handiwork.

But I didn't remember—at all—what Krev smelled like.

"How can you be so sure?" I asked. Aela had sounded too sure—I needed to know.

We were standing by the main door now. Aela was looking down at the snow in front of the door as she slowly pushed it open. There were no tracks in front of it. No dimples in the snow. If anyone was in there, they must have entered at least two days ago.

But she didn't answer my question.

"Aela?" I said, demanding her attention. Her motions stopped. but she didn't look at me. "_How_? Can you be so sure?"

Aela was peering into the dark entrance, steadily holding the door open with her right. She was holding her bow by her waist with her left. But there was no arrow on it. As if she hadn't expected any resistance. I could hear her sigh.

"Because she told me she'd be."

Wait. What?

"She… _told _you she'd be?"

If I had been walking, I'd stop in my tracks. But all I did was stare at Aela's back as she held the door open, feeling her comment turn the insides of me. Feeling my hand squeeze the hard leather-wrapped handle of my axe.

Again: ¨She… told me she'd be?¨ ¨She _**told **_me she'd be!¨

"She told you she'd be?!" I repeated at her silence.

Aela kept her back towards me as she held the door open, tilting her head down. What had she done? What deal had she made?

"What do you mean: She told you?!" I asked again—No!—demanded. Is _this_ the thing I've felt she's been hiding?! Because she's been hiding something! Ever since we left Jorrvaskr! I knew she'd been hiding something!

"_What_ do you want me to say?!" Aela snapped, turning toward me, "I found her! We fought. She let me live…"

"You fought her?!" Her wound? Krev gave her that?

"…And she said she'd be **here**—where she killed _Skjor_—**if** I brought you!"

"Wait, what? 'If you brought **me**?!'"

"If I brought you!"

Krev had asked for me? Why? "By Ysmir, Aela. What did you do?"

"Oh, I know what it sounds like: You think I made some _deal_? Betrayed you? The Companions? Well, I didn't!"

"I don't know what to believe. But if Krev told you she'd be here— there's nothing honorable about her. This is a trap."

"Of course it's a trap! You don't think I know that?" Her eyes had begun to glow; _she's _angry at me? "All this time, I've sought **nothing **but to avenge Skjor! Nothing else mattered! And now, this is the best lead I got. The **only **lead! And if me bringing you was the only thing she asked? The only thing I need for revenge, then I don't care that it's a trap! And frankly, I don't see what she has to gain from me bringing backup."

Too many questions on my mind. Why had Krev asked for me? And Aela had spoken with her? If this was Krev's idea, us coming here, then this is without a doubt a trap. There's no way this can end well. But if Aela was right, and Krev really was in there? Then how could I turn away? Why should I?

"But I get it," she continued with a degrading snap, "you have a _wife _to get back to. And maybe running headfirst into a trap isn't to your liking. And _maybe_, avenging _Skjor _isn't as important to _you _anymore. But you **owe **him!"

¨You owe him,¨ she had said. And ¨a wife to get back to.¨ Suddenly I felt shame, and hard, burrowing guilt. Enough to lower my head, shy away from her glowing glare. ¨You owe him,¨ she had said… She _did _blame me. And why wouldn't she? I sure did: for everything… everyone.

"But go on then! Turn back if you want! Run home to your woman! But with or without you, I'm going in there to kill that bitch. Because unlike you, I got nothing to lose and everything to gain. And unlike _you… _as long as she dies… I don't care if I don't make it back out."

How ironic, that no longer ago than only last night, that same sentence had set itself upon my mind, clenched its sharp teeth into my meaning, and comfortably rocked me to sleep. Aela knew how I felt. She might not know it, but she knew exactly how I felt.

Aela turned sharply away at my silence, grabbed the handle of the open door, and set her feet to enter. Her mind was set. She had already stepped over the threshold.

"Wait…" I said.

She actually did stop, standing in the doorway with her back toward me.

¨Nothing to lose and everything to gain,¨ that's the only part that didn't agree with me. If Aela died, and Hircine was real—an afterlife on his hunting field—Aela would meet Skjor there. But if I died… Ysolda wasn't moon-born. I have nothing to gain in death.

The only thing I have to gain… is _vengeance_!

I steadied my axe in my hands and drew for a cold breath, "I'm coming with you."

I never intended anything else.

* * *

There was dust in the air: particles and dots danced with the following draft—only visible in the rays of light flowing in from behind us—as we entered the dark room. Traces of snow flew, lingered, and circled around our boots as we walked. The sound of the draft: a distant ghostly howl as the downward staircase facing us sucked it in, inhaled it into the belly of the fort.

"Close the door," Aela said.

"Why?" I asked: the open door was our only source of light, not that it mattered once we got deeper inside.

"That draft, we won't be able to smell anything in front of us."

"We need a light," I said as I reached for the door handle, looking at Aela as she moved to the side of the staircase, looking down the stairs as she nocked an arrow on her bow.

"We don't," she said softly, almost whispering. "Without the draft, if anyone's down there, we'll smell or hear them before they're close enough to act."

I gave her neck a long look. Did she intend we'd fight in pitch-black darkness? With nothing to guide us but smell and hearing alone? I wasn't sure I could do that.

"Just trust your instincts…" she suddenly said with a scolding tone of withheld annoyance—she must have sensed my hesitation. "…and your reflexes. If your mind hesitates, give over to your body—it'll know how to act."

This is a trap. Krev brought us here. This is without a doubt a trap. And now Aela wants us to move in complete darkness. It didn't make sense.

"I really think we should light a torch," I whispered.

"A torch?" she said, turning her head to me. "By Ysgrammor, If anyone's hiding down there they'll see us long before we see them. And the sound and smoke from the torch will only be in the way of our senses."

That's—

"Trust me," she continued with a stern look, "You'll come to learn that in darkness, we're _far _superior to humans."

_¨Superior. Humans.¨_ The way she said it almost gave off a chill; as if she no longer considered herself such: human.

_Are we?_

I drew for air and pushed the thought aside. Aela was right: a torch would be a bad idea and a dead giveaway. But still. Darkness. I didn't see much of a choice: if we come onto a trap, trust Aela to find it before I do.

Again, I sighed and pushed the door shut. And it turned dark. Except for a thin stream of light begging through the door-crack—a transparent wall cutting the darkness in half—it turned dark. And silent. So silent. The ghostly howl had ended, the draft was gone, and in its wake remained nothing but pressing dark and deafening silence. A void more than a room.

I could hear myself breathing, eyes gaping wide as they searched for Aela. I closed my mouth, still, I could hear myself breathing—and I saw no Aela. I saw only the thin stream of light splitting the room, the dust passing through it. But outside of it? outside of the light? I thought that with these eyes, I'd at least be able to see something. But there was nothing.

"I can't see," I whispered.

"Really," I heard Aela snark sarcastically in the dark, "This way. Just follow my voice. And smell"

_Smell_. I could smell her, somewhere out there. It was hard to pinpoint but…

I held my axe at my side as my left hand carefully searched the air in front of me. Slowly I moved forward, uncertain of the floor. One step at a time.

Five steps… Shouldn't I be reaching the stairs by now? Six… Seven…

A sharp clang rang through the room as my axe hit something hard—the wall?—and the sound echoed down the staircase.

"Shh!" Aela hushed sharply on my left. She was on my left? I must have walked slightly askew. There was no way I'd be able to tell someone's location by smell alone. General direction? Sure. But the exact location? No way.

"Over here," she whispered as I felt her grab my hand and lead me to her side. "Here…" she continued as she raised and pressed my hand against the cold stone wall to my left. "…use this for guidance. And keep your axe in front of you—not at your side. Just follow me—I'll take the lead—I don't trust you to notice a tripwire in the dark." That… was probably for the best.

She let go of my hand and I heard a few light steps in front of me, sounded like she was walking down the stairs. I pressed my hand against the wall and held my axe in front of me as I slid my foot along the floor to find the first step, and almost stumbled as I found it.

"We keep quiet from now on—no more talking," Aela whispered as we slowly descended the stairs, "Keep your senses sharp, and if I stop: stop. If you hear _anything_, smell something, don't speak, just stop, I'll notice." As sound a strategy as ever, guess all I could do now was place my trust in Aela. "And try to move quietly." Easy for her to say, she wasn't wearing armor half her weight.

The air was cold and dry as we continued, it tasted like dust in my mouth: earthy. I focused on listening on Aela's steps in front of me, but still, I could hear my breathing, and the soft brushing sound as my gloved hand slid against the wall. The more I focused on my senses, the more I became aware of the slight breath of air whiffing at the hairs by my neck, there was still a small draft, barely noticeable but it was there. Now that I focused, I could even hear it whisper as it passed us: a lover's breath against my ear.

Aela was right, even as small as the draft now was, it made it harder to smell anything from further ahead. All I could smell was cold stone and wood, and the two of us. But… there was something else in the air, a small discreet odor, growing as we reached the bottom of the stairs. The odor increased, turned into a stench as we rounded the corner: rot and decay.

Even in the pitch black, I knew what the smell was. If memory served me right, last time we were here, we had faced two men in this room. And judging by the smell, they were still here. Rotting on the floor.

I let my hand go of the wall as Aela's steps went into the room, seemed we could only follow the wall for so long. She trod carefully, and carefully I followed. The stench was now thick in my nose, and I could taste it as it stuck to the back of my throat. I didn't want to swallow, but the stench forced me to, and the sound of me swallowing sounded loud against the background silence in my ears.

I wondered as we walked, where they were. Were they beside us as we walked, lying dead on the floor? Or in front of us, and we had yet to walk past them: perhaps we already had walked past them. Or, without my knowing, right over them.

There was a noise coming from the floor, hiding behind the sound of my breathing: A wet wriggling sound. I didn't know what it was. All I knew was that I didn't want to step in it: it sounded disgusting. And, thankfully, the only thing my steps landed on was hard stone.

Again, I felt Aela grab my hand. She didn't even fumble for it, just grabbed it as if she knew exactly where it was. And again, she lifted it to the wall. I assumed it was the next hallway, that the room was now behind us. And so we continued forward on light footsteps.

The stench followed us into the hallway, carried by the hidden draft. If it had been hard to catch the scent of things in front of us before, it'd be impossible now: at least to me.

Even with our sneaking pace, the next hallway felt longer than I remember. A lot longer. I could feel the seconds drag as I felt the wall, felt the stone floor beneath my feet, and the rotten stench in my nose.

I don't know if I was imagining it, but the draft felt stronger as we passed the corner: perhaps it was my senses attuning to the dark.

There was a whistling sound. At first, it was distant, but as we walked on, it became clearer, closer. Again, Aela's footsteps wandered off into the dark, and I had to let go of the wall to follow.

There were plenty of new smells in the air: spices, dried herbs, and clay overlapped the receding stench of decay. And a strong smell of wood lingered in the air, and the smell of coal. The whistling sound? A fireplace? Chimney? That must be where the draft exited. I remember; this room was a kitchen.

The air got fresher as we walked through the room: the draft pulling the stench from earlier with it. It actually smelled nice with all the dried herbs left to hang, homelike even.

I still couldn't see a thing as we continued through the room, but for some reason, I took a step to my left as I followed the sound of Aela. I don't know if it was a subconscious memory or something else, but for some reason, I had the feeling there was furniture to my right: table and chairs? Not sure how but… the air to my side smells of… _too _much wood. And I don't want to walk into it and knock anything over.

Another pair of stairs, no more than eight steps down—I counted—before we reached the bottom. I darkly remember this hallway as well, nothing but the smell of wood, iron, rust, and stone. But also new smells: earthy air and damp mud. Even blind in the dark I could almost 'see' the row of cells—the scent of rust on our right—and the sparse wall-mounted shelves on the left—the scent of wood. A faint scent of wax lingered in the air: growing stronger as we walked, only to dwindle before it grew stronger again. The wall-mounted candles. By the smell, we've passed four of them.

I didn't need to put my hand against the wall to walk this hallway.

The stone floor felt hard beneath my feet, a tapping sound from our steps bouncing off the walls as we walked. A shy echo.

Tap-tap, tap-tap tap-tap…

Other than our footsteps, it was quiet… Quieter than before. Too quiet.

Even as I tried to hide it, I could hear my breathing. And I could hear my heart beating in my chest, it sounded loudly in my ears. And more so, I could hear Aela's breathing as well: slow and prolonged inhales, silent and relaxed exhales. But outside of us… I heard nothing.

Why did the silence feel so much more intense than earlier? Why were my heartbeats suddenly so loud? Why was everything outside of me suddenly so silent? pressing? Had my hearing began to adjust? Or was something missing?

The draft. That gentle whisper in my ears. It was gone. Since the kitchen, it was gone. To think something so small, a sound so insignificant could make such a vast difference. And it was verging on horrifying. Terrifying as it grew, the sound of my heartbeats only getting stronger and more rapid as they began pressing at my throat.

I turned my focus outwards, on the distant echoes of our footsteps: the only thing keeping the silence at bay. And again, as if obsessed, I listened to the echoes.

Tap-tap, tap-tap, tap-tap, shr—

A brushing sound, something soft.

My heart took a skip at the sound and my breath froze in my lungs together with my body. My foot stopped before it had reached the floor, elevated above the ground as I felt slight resistance beneath my boot.

A tripwire? A pressure plate? This place was a trap—we knew that since before we entered—and here it was. How had I been so distracted by the darkness that I forgot to remain focused on that fact?

I remained still—not daring to lift my foot: who knew what kind of trap it was?—and kept holding my breath as I desperately listened for Aela: should I speak up? She had told me not to. And if someone was hiding in one of the cells, waiting for precisely this to happen, now would be the time to strike. But would she really notice?

The hallway had turned quieter—more so than before—as I listened for her. No sound of footsteps. No sound of her breathing. She had noticed. And right now, she must be listening in on whatever she believed me to have heard. But it was _so _silent.

Again the sound of my heartbeats rose in my ears, pounding as I held my breath in shaking lungs. Please notice.

The silence only seemed to grow as the seconds passed, and the heartbeats in my ears almost turned… deafening. And the darkness around me only seemed to creep closer, pressing against me as my gaping eyes appallingly searched for focus in the seemingly endless void. If I reached to my side? Would there still be a wall there? Or would my reach go on forever? And my hand forever search to grip nothingness?

Please notice, Aela!

Still, the panic-inducing silence only grew. I could feel it nagging at my skin, licking goosebumps up my neck. It was inside my armor!

And people describe silence as relaxing?! There's nothing relaxing about it!

But then—out there—when it's silent, one can still hear the soft breeze ruffle leaves, the insects clicking as they worked, crawling in the grass, and the distant song of birds. One can still hear the calm of the river, the water murmuring between stones, and the trees creaking as the wind caressed their crowns, whispering. And all those things, silent as they are, are relaxing.

But down here, the real silence resided. And it wasn't hiding behind comforting noises of nature—masquerading as safety. It was intrusive, pressing, demanding, violent and loud! It screamed 'danger' and forced its dead teeth into one's skin; its cantankerous bite petrifying muscles. It sadistically held you in place; pressing down with the world of a water, yet teased you to move; if only so for you to stop it, knowing fully well you couldn't.

No. This—down here—was where the real silence resided.

And there was nothing silent about it.

Enough! I can't take it!

"My foot," I exhaled shrinkingly—a single scared breath as I no longer could hold my breath.

I heard Aela move, felt her touch my leg as her fingers worked their way down my shin, reaching my boot. A scuffling sound as she worked whatever trap was beneath it.

Hastily I felt her rip the thing from beneath my foot, brushing against my sole, before she stood up and forcefully pushed it into my chest plate.

"Get it together," she snarked as I instinctively clenched the soft-feeling piece before it fell to the floor.

It was heavier than I had anticipated. And soft. Hard to feel through the gloves but it felt like a rug or… a fur. A familiar scent behind the thick layer of dust; Skjor: his fur-suit. It was still here.

I clenched it hard in my hand; Its scent probed my mind with bad memories: That day… If only I hadn't been late that day, then none of this would've happened.

¨You owe him.¨

I tossed the fur-suit aside for the memories—together with the earlier feel of panic. Aela was right: ¨get it together.¨ We were here for a reason, and sentimentality wasn't one of them: revenge was.

Aela's footsteps had turned distant as I took up the pace to catch up. There shouldn't be much left of this cell-riddled corridor.

Trying to walk quietly made it difficult to catch up to Aela; she moved a lot quicker on quiet feet than I ever could, but gradually I did, and before I knew it, I realized the corridor was now behind us: somehow, except for a sudden odor, the walls didn't feel as close.

But as we entered what I knew to be the torture chamber, I could already hear the next room: buzzing. The sound of flies. It only got louder as we crossed the room, briefly interrupted by a rattling chain—hanging from the ceiling. I could feel the dust fall on my face as it rattled. Smell it, too. If it was me or Aela who set it off, I couldn't tell. But it was a nice distraction from the earlier silence.

As the rattling settled, the buzzing returned. And the odor only increased as we walked: the smell of death.

For the first time since we entered, I was glad it was dark. Glad that I couldn't see the hung up beasts I remembered from this room. Glad that I couldn't see the skinned carcasses decorating the walls; the gaping heads mounted on the shelves; the stretched-out skins left to dry.

The room didn't smell as bad as I thought it would. But then again, the corpses had been on the verge of rotting the last time we were here. That was months ago: I doubt there's anything but bones left by now. Still, the odor only grew as we moved forward. And so did the buzzing.

Strange. I thought the buzzing had originated from this room.

There was another scent… Smoke?

Something suddenly touched my face—I almost bent over backward as it hit me—and I took a step back to duck under.

That's right, I remembered. I had to do the same the last time: duck under the werewolf corpses that hung from the ceiling.

Bending my knees, I crouched down as I moved forward, aiming the axe-head forward so it didn't get stuck on anything. It was hard to recall the room from memory, and as the odor began turning into a stench, even my nose couldn't aid me in the layout. And the buzzing, still, only grew.

It should be safe to straighten up now—surely we're past most of the room.

Tickling. I felt flies in my hair as I straightened myself. Felt them crawl on my forehead, and brushing them off only seemed to work temporarily: they quickly found their way to sit on my skin again, or buzz around my ears—I couldn't hear Aela's footsteps because of them.

Suddenly my feet stopped as something flashed in my memory: a mixed feeling of pity and fear. I knew… there was a cage on my side. And for some reason, I slowly reached out to my right—and felt my fingers touch cold iron bars.

This cell… this is where that werewolf had been held—his fearful whimpering and panicked avoidant eyes as he crawled into the corner of the cell flashed into my mind.

"You didn't notice?" Memory spoke, ¨The cage door isn't locked…¨

The memory. Fear alone had kept him caged. Fear…

That's what it did. The bars never existed, did they? Not to him. Only fear kept him in place. Kept him from moving, fleeing. it even kept him from fighting. And first now, it struck me: it had done the same to me.

Last time I faced Krev, fear had held me back: telling me to flee from the back of my mind. It had held me back for every swing. Kept me from being… me. Not until those bars had separated us—and the back of my mind had told me I was safe—had it receded. And once it receded, anger, rage, and fury had taken its place: hatred born from the realization of what she had done to Skjor. But not until those bars had separated us.

I grabbed an iron bar, clenching it tightly in my hand.

And what was the prize of that fear? Just _what _was the result of my own fear?! Skjor died because I was late, because of chance—there's no denying that. But after that? Ysolda? Jida? Their deaths were entirely placed upon my own two shoulders. Had I not been afraid back then—had I killed her the first time we met? Then!…

How much different was I from the wolf locked inside this cage?

Fear alone had kept him from pushing open his door. And fear alone had kept me from 'opening my own.'

I wonder if he was still in there: a starved skeleton _locked _behind _unlocked _bars, starved to death as fear had been his sole prison? If he was, I couldn't smell him. Perhaps he overcame. I hoped he had. I hoped he had escaped his cell. Then so should I. Because the last time I was afraid…

_My loved ones died._

I let go of the bar, clenched my axe firmly as I smelled the rotten, earthy, smoke-tinged air. I listened through the buzzing of the flies, heard the hidden crackle of a small flame—no—numerous flames. Torches?

Yes—no more fear from now one. None of it. It served _no _greater purpose other than for the weak to survive as they flee—egocentrically sacrificing everything they so ¨dearly¨ hold behind them as they _flee _for their own _singular _safety! Disgusting! Had I not first joined the Companions to protect?! And what a protector I am! Shivering at the touch of darkness! Struck to panic by the sound of silence! How poetically protective I truly am—_oh, mighty Companion!_

Well no more! It ends today—and so shall Krev! As I set my mind before—ironclad!—my outcome doesn't matter as long as I deliver vengeance! For honor! Theirs more than mine! For mine no longer matter: it has already gone past and beyond lost!

Back to reality, shall we? Aela's steps were already more than distant—echoing, actually—around a corner. She had spent no time waiting on my behalf, and why should she? I'm the one taking my time figuring things out—Aela already knew, as I should've before we entered. Why was it every time I spent time with her, I realized how much I still had to learn? How much would I have learned, had I spent more time with Skjor?

I increased my pace and walked forward into the darkness, feeling it wash over me as it passed me: no longer holding its crippling grip over me. The buzzing of the flies dulled as I learned to ignore it, and focus my hearing on the world beyond it: anything more important than the obviously distracting first impression. And by itself, my nose searched past the stinging stench of rotten corpses as it found hidden traces of…. scentless soap? Clean skin.

She's here. I knew she was.

I'd be impressed with myself. But truth be told, I was too distracted by the reborn thought of vengeful purpose; distracted by the ascending sensations of my senses. How _eye-opening_ it was, that I no longer needed my eyes to walk these halls: the repeated echoes of my footsteps told me where the corridor bent and the cold scent of stone gave away the walls. I could even smell the traces of frozen dirt behind said stone: icy.

¨You'll come to learn that in darkness, we're _far _superior to humans.¨

So _this _is what Aela meant? _This _is how she saw it all? And all it took was a sudden change of heart, a change of perspective? All it took? well… that's not something one can teach: _experience_—only the events of life offer that.

Yes. Experience. But at what price?

¨Needed to experience death,¨ she had told me Skjor had said. Ha! How cruel. But to think Skjor could still teach me from beyond his ashen grave. Was his spirit here? Do I believe in such things? Does it matter? No, I only need my own.

I turned for the corner I knew existed in the dark, and saw a faint yellow light against stone, flickering with soft shadows against the wall as the next corner turned to the right.

I had smelled them: the torches. But still—where's Aela?

Forward again I went with confidence and purpose, for I could see again—not that I any longer needed to: I've come to realize sight is my least worthy instrument.

That corner. I know what's behind it: _Skjor's hall!_ The corridor—_that_ corridor. I've thought of it as _hellish _so many times, but now, I almost felt it inviting, fitting for the occasion, for it described everything I'm about to do: brutal slaughter! And so I turned it.

Now, this was a sight to behold: mounted torches burning on the walls, flickering with desperate red-yellow light as they licked the cold damp foul air for oxygen; dark walls, splattered up to my waist, as the long since dried blood had turned black against the stone—pure scent of iron—an uneven floor as dead, thin, limbs reached for the enclosed heavens, _death _written across over their lifeless bodies as the only thing holding their humanoid form together was their still intact armor. The air was so foul the stench stung my eyes, I swallowed down the sour taste of stomach-acid as my stomach began to turn. And on top of it all—almost by the end of the corridor—a dark silhouette against the closed double door, standing proudly atop a layer of corpses: Aela.

And by Shor, by Ysmir, and Ysgramor, and all the gods alike… the insects.

This is where the buzzing had originated from—not to mention the stench—flies covering the floor, walls, and ceiling alike, buzzing through the air as they carelessly exchanged their tiny seats. Maggots and worms feeding upon the rotting corpses: more skin on top of bone than flesh by now. So meager. Matte-black scarabs and beetles, that shimmered gold in the light, trodded their landscape, searching dried intestines for the greed to feed and fornicate. And spiders: cobwebs hanging from the ceiling as the spiderwebs covered every corner and crevice—decorating the air, see-through from the torchlights. They too crawled on the bodies, too many legs to count. But it wasn't the flesh of the dead they were after, but the ones living upon it.

It was a feast. Everything by my feet and forward was a feast, was it not? Men, slaughtered by a werewolf, reduced to food for bugs and flies to lay their eggs in. And those eggs, in turn, hatch to feet on the flesh as it steadily rots. And as the maggots and worms endure metamorphosis, they, in turn, become prey for the spiders. It was comical.

Sabercats, bears, werewolves, and men! Apex predators above all, at least so we're told. But it's all a lie. A lie we tell ourselves to hide the real truth. These… these insects, crawling beneath my feet, were the true predators. Hidden—Hiding above the top of the food-chain, ready to drop down upon us through the sections the moment any of us decided to drop dead in the dirt.

And that's the truth of it all: by the end, no matter our own strength, these creatures will devour us all. Again, how comical: that the tiniest of creatures, the ones we rarely even notice, will always be above us—rattling the food-chain without us even noticing until the day we no longer can notice anything at all.

Reality is disturbingly disgusting. And nothing at all as we imagine.

I could feel them—hear them squish as I took my first step into the revolting corridor.

The sound. All the buzzing at that wet wriggling sound. It was the same wriggling sound I had heard before—just after we entered. It came from the maggots. From their feeding on corpses.

There was a severed skull on my left as I trod the corridor—bones cracking beneath my feet. It was looking at me. Looking straight at me with empty eye sockets: shadowy, hollow, pits. A gaping mouth so filled with wriggling maggots I almost expected it to exhale with a gurgling sound. But for some reason, the thing that disturbed me the most was that the skull still had hair: a good head of ragged dirty blond shoulder-length hair. It made a disgusted shiver run up my spine.

I tore my eyes from his sight, breaking my eye-contact with the dead, as, again, my stomach took a turn for the worst. The air was so thick with the rot I could taste it as it forced itself down my throat, sticking to the roof of my mouth: oddly sweet, but foul, sticky, and thick. Again, I swallowed.

I continued forward atop the layer of bony, armored, corpses, trying to ignore the flies as they tried to taste my skin: no amount of swatting could possibly keep them at bay. My eyes had grown accustomed to the torchlight, and they were no longer as blinding as they first had been: Aela's silhouette had become clearer, more colorful… Why wasn't she moving?

The warmth from the torches was welcoming, except for its effect on the corpses, but that begged the question: Why were they lit in the first place?

Because _she_ lit them, of course. But then, why only here? Why this corridor? Why not the earlier hallways? The entire basement? Surely she had wielded a torch as she walked here: giving her the means to light the way as she walked. But no. She _chose_ to lit this hallway and _this_ hallway alone. Because she wanted us to see it, that's the sadistic creature she was. Not only because she wanted to remind us of Skjor's monstrous rampage, but because she wanted to remind us of the fact that _she_ defeated him. That the door by the end of the hallway was closed, only confirmed it.

Why _wasn't _Aela moving?

I took up the pace to reach her, hearing their bones break beneath my feet as their armored pieces scrambled aside. Unlike last time, my feet actually reached the floor as they dug themselves down the body parts.

"Aela?" I said in a low voice, muffled behind my hand as I tried to keep the stench out of my mouth and nose. Screw the no-more-talking rule: If any enemies showed up now we'd see them.

"Aela?!" I repeated a bit louder as she hadn't answered.

"Watch your steps," she answered between gritted teeth without turning.

Watch my steps?

I stopped just behind her and looked down at the floor by my feet—wish to Ysmir I hadn't: stiff meager limbs with ashen-pale skin and abdomens full of those very things that dangled from the top of the food chain. They almost seemed to be reaching for me with their bony fingers and gaping eyes—expressions frozen in horror. But except for the bodies, I didn't see anything out of the ordinary.

I lifted my head, watched Aela's rust-red hair lift over her neck as she turned her face down. Her leg.

A beartrap hidden amongst the corpses, clenched shut halfway up her shin

"Some help here," she whispered, still with gritted teeth, biting through the pain.

Carefully I moved forward and kneeled down beside her, all the while watching for more traps. I found none.

"Just get it open," Aela continued impatiently. But I didn't want to rush it.

Aela's an archer, true and pure, and other than her torso and the side of her hips, she didn't wear metal—she wore hardened-leather—and this thing had bitten straight through it.

I grabbed the toothed-iron with both my hands as high as I could, felt the spikes bite through my gloves as I forced them open. Aela quickly removed her foot as soon as they parted, and I let them go with a sharp clank as they again shut, biting air.

She put her hand on my shoulder for balance as she put down her foot, but quickly removed her hand as she forced herself to stand on her own. I could smell her blood. This time, I recognized its scent.

I stood back up and reached out my elbow to offer support, but bitingly she ignored me and walked through the pain as she stepped forward with a slight, but well hidden, limp. Her face didn't show, but I could see the side of her clenched jaw.

An open wound caused amongst rotting corpses? Could the wolf blood hold off such an infection risk? Hopefully, it could. But more than worrying about that, I got the feeling the bear trap had wounded her pride more so than her leg. ¨I don't trust you to notice a tripwire in the dark,¨ yet _she _had been the one to fall for one. But I didn't blame her. Noticing a pressure-plate while walking on already loose body parts? No one could be skilled enough to pay attention to something like that, not even Aela.

But now, I was more certain than ever: Krev was here. Waiting for us. The thought was angering enough that I forgot all about the stench. I'll have my Vengeance!

"Aela, are you—"

"I'm fine," she interrupted, "Don't need a leg to use my bow… Let's just get this door open."

"Let's." I took the lead—Aela had already refused my help. And now, she moved slower than me.

I kept my eyes on the ground, watching past the beetles and worms as I searched for any and all traps—again, I found none. And before I had counted past eight steps the door was in front of us: heavy and strong; solid and shut. But it wouldn't be for long.

Just like last time, I pressed my side against the heavy frame: my shoulder against metal-framed hardwood. And like last time, Aela lifted her bow and gave me a nod. I pushed.

My foot lost its balance as the forearm I happened to be standing on began to roll. But quickly I regained myself, pressed my left palm against the door, and found new footing. And again, I pushed with an arrow tip in front of my eyes as Aela aimed through the growing trap.

"You came!" A glad—joyful yet slightly surprised—voice greeted before the door had fully opened. That voice: soft, vibrating sensually from behind a layer of metal. The voice awakened a primal heartbeat in my chest, didn't feel like my own. Still, I pushed. I could already see the torch-lit bending cobblestone-wall: the circular room I so strongly remember.

It was all deja vu. I almost expected to see Skjor's half skinned bestial form atop that ¨stage¨ of hers.

But more than so, I recognized that clearly, overly-joyful, and childish voice. And in an instant, it made my blood boil, a sudden pounding in my ears. Warm hatred flaring up like a sudden gush of wind, I could feel it in my neck! My wolf had awakened: Howling for Krev!

"You're alive!" Her voice lit even further, as Aela slunk through the growing crack before me.

Again, another heart-pound in my chest—the door opened fully before I realized my body had pushed it harder. And _she _came into view. Standing tall in the same spot as she had been last time, surrounded by wall-mounted torchlight.

That emotionless mask of plated steel—a smooth face, void of a mouth, and deep hollow slits for eyes—pressed toward us as she greeted us with outheld arms. That same 'Dibellian' chest plate—shimmering as it reflected the yellow-golden light—gently holding her torso as she stood with one leg in front of the other, squeezing her thighs together. She stood with confidence teasingly verging on pride, but it wasn't the stance of a warrior—it was far too carefree and relaxed.

It was her, no doubt about it… and my inner darkness only grew as I saw her: anger growing so sharp I could taste the copper; the bones in my fingers hurting for their grip on my axe.

'**You**,' I was about to say through gritted teeth as I entered the room, but she beat me to it.

"Look at you! With makeup and everything!" she exclaimed in glee, pointing her faced-up hands toward us before turning them to herself, "For little me? You shouldn't have."

"Aela…" I said in a low, but deeper than intended, voice—her attention was the only attention I wanted—as I walked up to her side, never taking my eyes off of Krev.

"But don't mind me, you're Beautiful! Both of you! Soo scary-looking too—eyes and all."

"…take the right. **Don't **let her get to that opening." I focused to remain rational: against her, planning was necessary lest it'd end the same as last. But truth be told, my mind was fleeting toward **rampancy!**

"And _you_…" she said, setting her expressionless face on me as she crossed her arms. She slightly tilted her head—lifting one hand as she placed her cheek on her finger—and even though I couldn't see it, like last time, I knew she had to be smiling. And it angered me—more than me. That familiar feeling of my wolf gnawing at the back of my mind as he growled from behind my eyes; that '_tingle' _crawling underneath my skin.

How **dare **she look at me!

"…_You're_ different. Not at all the expression you had last time—but so much better. Are you angry? Is he there?" she continued, slowly rubbing her fingertip against her plated cheek: as if to remove a water spot. "I always wondered: can you feel it? But he _is_, isn't he? Of course he is!" she giggled, suddenly and joyfully leaning forward as she slapped her hands against her thighs, "Because I can see him! I'm soo glad to see it _worked_. I saw him last time too. But not like now."

_¨It worked?¨_

"Careful," Aela said, slowly moving as to follow along with the plan, readying her arrow on the bow, "She's a lot faster than she looks."

I remember: last time, she had been faster than Vilkas. But this time, I won't allow unconscious fear to hold me back.

"I like what you did with your eyes," Krev continued, mimicking my facepaint with her hand, seemingly uncaring of Aela's movement. "I actually didn't think she'd bring you, but here you are! I'm just so…"—she clenched her elbows together against her chest and held her shut fists against her ¨lips¨—"**glad**." Sounded like she spoke through clenched teeth as she opened her hands in excitement.

Enough with this! I'm not to be subject to her emotional enjoyment: _provocations _disguised as _childish tease_. It only served to **fuel **our anger! Aela's already in position, time to move.

The leather creaked as my hands gripped hard around the smooth handle, the tingle in my skin had turned to a burn and I readied my axe as I made my move, clenched teeth, and began walking forward.

"Oh wait wait wait!" she began, waving her hands at me to stop as she took a wider stance. But I was done listening! Remember why I'm here: Revenge! "Don't you wanna know why I did it?!" Still, she spoke with glee! "Don't you wanna know why I brought you here?" As if it mattered!? "Don't you wanna know _Why _I killed her?!"

"Don't you **Dare **speak of her!" I roared, stopping in my tracks. I couldn't help it, those enraged words left without my thinking—my wolf biting at her sentence! He was more present than ever. So close to the surface he was practically standing beside me: there was no ¨wall¨ this time—that thing fell the moment I found Ysolda!

"I did it for _You_, you idiot!" she exclaimed in reborn excitement, eagerly awaiting my reaction with clear anticipation—shining from inside.

"Shut up," I said—my forearms burned for the strength I unknowingly put into them—what part of her twisted mind could possibly make her believe she had done **anything ¨For¨ **me?!

And again her body language became eccentric: all excitement and childish joy. "I _tamed _him for you! And it worked, didn't it? Like I said, you're different now—I can see it, I can _feel _it. And you can too! Can't you?…"

"Shut up," I repeated between her giggling words.

"…I know how it works! I've done it before, _soo _many times. But not like you—oh no—you were different. And _Soo _much more fun than the others. You must think I'm so _mean_—that I killed her to _punish _you? To break you? But noo. You see, I _love _you werewolves! I really, really, do…"

"Shut up." I couldn't tell if I was breathing anymore: every muscle was so tense my body felt as if on fire.

"…Don't you see? I killed her for _you_! I killed her to wake _you _up! I killed her… to set. _you. _free. Don't you feel it? Don't you see?…"

Again I wished to yell ¨**Shut up!**¨" But my mouth no longer obeyed me. It was clenched shut, bitten, so hard my teeth hurt! My entire body hurt! And it wouldn't move. Only shake with anger as my armor felt too tight to wear. As my _skin_… felt too tight to wear. _¨I killed her for you.¨_ And other than the burning pain, I felt hatred: Yellow burning Rage; fingers twisting in my skull; claws down my spine—tap-tap-tap-tap-up-and-down!

"…It was me! **I!** tore down the wall between you two! And now you can come out—full moon or not—I know you can. And we can finally play! Just like I wanted to!"

"**Shut up!**" I screamed as my tongue loosened. Something broke, something in between my minds. But she only laughed that girlish laughter of hers.

And she continued speaking, but I wasn't listening anymore. My ears were pounding: my head, roaring. And my neck felt as if it was about to break. Everything looked blurred: like watching the world through tainted glass. The taste of blood in my mouth… burning gums… my teeth? My fingertips stung as if they were pressed against red-hot iron, sharp pain in my palms as they clenched the handle. My hands. Shacking. Protruding through my gloves? Claws? When?

"Oooh! You didn't know?!" Krev exclaimed excitedly, loudly enough to grab that one part of my split-sided attention that still obeyed, or paid attention.

She wasn't looking at me anymore. She was looking right—at Aela—and Aela was looking at me.

Why did she look so… uneasy? Concerned? Almost— I wonder. What did she see? What did she see but a burning expression? Yes. Burning. For right now: Watching the world through these double-layered eyes felt… strangely exhilarating. Flickering. Between two worlds. Who's?

"You didn't tell her?!" Krev continued, excitedly looking over at me in seeming ecstasy. "Oh, this is only getting better—How sick aren't _you_?! Why didn't you tell her?"

Tell her? Why… didn't I tell her? Tell her… what? Why? It's all… twitching. No. it's… not.

"Oh, you should have been there!" Krev said back to Aela. "It was beautiful—all of it! The way she screamed his name! It made me so… envious. She was soo sure he'd come to save her. But you didn't…"—back at me—"…did you?"

_My name? _Save… name? Did I?

"I liked her skin—but you know that already—I kept some. And she was soo pretty. Like, really pretty. I wanted to touch her **all **over, but I didn't! I never touched her face—I didn't want to get blood in her hair. I wanted her to still be pretty when you found her!"

Found… her? Hair… like fire. She's? I saved… her?

"Don't listen to her—She's a monster!" I heard Aela say, or shout? She sounded so distant. As if she was underwater. Behind a wall. In a storm.

"Oh, _I'm _the ¨monster?!¨" Krev laughed… such joyful laughter: Like… grass between my toes. "You _do _realize you eat humans? Right? Their hearts, is it? And liver."

Humans… eat… hearts? Monster?

"Don't listen to her!"

Listen… Who? _¨I did it for you.¨_

"And when that thing popped out of her?! Oh, I've never been so happy! Did you know? I didn't! And best of all—her skin was already off by then! _Moaning _and _groaning _and _crying _and _weeping… _Aaah, please! I couldn't withhold myself—it was so beautiful I cried! Don't you just _love _it—I Wanted It All!"

Skin… off… thing… popped? Smells… wet? Smells… aroused, moist. What's… moist? Blood's wet. Flesh's… moist. She… cried? Aroused… smells… sweet. I hate sweets!

"I said don't listen to her! Remember why we're here!"

Who? She sounded… afraid? Why? Who's… afraid? Remember?… Why am I'm here? Remember… what? I… did it for _you_. _It…_ worked. _I…_ tamed him. _**I…**_tore down that wall. And now… _we can play—full-moon-or-not—we can play—full-moon-or-not—we can play?_

"Was she alive when you found her?!…"

Remember? Play… players… _price?_ _Don't_—what?—_seek… to gain that power._ Villllkas? _It's rarely worth the price-price-price_. Because there's… a price? I wasn't… a price. Blood? The price. Displayed… **her**. Blooded. If I play? I can have it? Can I… eat it? I _want…_ price!

"Please tell me she was! Or was she?—"

_She_. Remember… Her? _Alive?_ No. No, she was-yes-no-yes-no-yes-no-yes! I… remember: Monsters… eat hearts. The price. Claws… through skin. Teeth… through flesh. Open. Taste. Blood on my tongue. Laughter… behind… the pounding in my ears? Rushing blood. Jerking flesh—dancing? And now… we can play.

"Noo… Don't tell me she was dead?! That's just—"

She was dead? Who? _Remember_. She's… dead. They're— They! Are dead. Who? Someone's—who's—Shouting? Aela's… shouting? I don't understand. Her words are all blurred, but then… so are my hands. Hands? Hands.

"Well, that's too bad. I really wanted you to get to say goodbye…"

Only one voice? But… there's… two? The other one's… Aela? Shouting… _remember_—who?—_why I'm here._ I'm here… because… I killed her! I'm here because… revenge? Revenge. And I… don't care…the slightest… _if I __**die!**_

"At least I wanted to give you that. Hm!—no can do."

_**Die.**__ No can do? _**Kill!** No can do. **Die!**… Aela's Shouting. _Snapp… out of it?_ _No-can-do-no-can-do-no-can-do… _Aela's?

"Well… at least_**I **_had fun."

Who's…

"_And,_ we've only gotten started!"

…Aela?

Blind rage took over, a mind of blight torn through burning vax. My body moved, muscles stiffening with every motion: painfully toughened and contracting. Still, forward it went: carrying my teeth like an animal. A pace of _fast _or _slow_, I couldn't tell. Everything felt so… wrong… distant and distorted. But at the same time; so right, complete, and clear. Like sitting in a burnt garden grown out of crystal glass—scorched, yet unshattered.

Which one of us is in control? Felt like both of us, or none of us. I saw only one thing that which my tunnel vision so sharply had sett to focus on—¨_eyes on the prey, not the horizon¨__**—Vengence!**_ One part screamed to **kill**, the other to **die—**don't know which part screamed louder. But it didn't matter. I didn't care. Nothing mattered but the axe in my hands which now **demanded **blood! **Prey!** I could **smell **the blood beneath her skin! **I want it!** I wanted it so so hard my insides cried out, **craving **to grind her bones beneath my teeth 'till there was nothing left but **dust**! Dust and **Crisp Fresh Flesh**! I could hear her **heartbeats** **Pound **in her chest! Pounding just for **ME! **Like a **beacon **guiding me in the dark, **begging **for my bite! Yes—her **heart**—the price! **My** price!

I'm in, let's **¨play!¨**

"Oh! we're starting already?…" I heard her voice, her voice alone—none other's voice existed. It was buzzing with perverse excitement: elated heartbeats: the smell of hormonal secretion. Smelled like _¨childhood memories¨_ and ¨_naughty, wet, dreams._¨ It tasted **good **on my tongue and I wanted more. "…But you're not out yet! Almost though."

Oh, my wolf was out! He was out alright, gnawing fiercely at that last tiny piece of control that still split our joined awareness: the fragment from which I still could see. Tearing at it as he howled for her blood. And I'd let him have it. In a second, I'd let him have it! Without question, I'd let him tear through my skin and rip her apart! I'd let loose his razor claws upon her! Take his teeth to her neck! In a second, I'd let him do all of that and more. Had I **not **wanted vengeance **myself**! **That**, and that alone, was the single and sole reason I could still tell our merging minds apart. The lone reason that **I **was **still **_human!_

So close now, overwhelming senses—the stage's set before me! I heard it before I saw it but I ingnored it, but so did she yet she did not—the twang of a bow—her body instantly switched to alert and her feet left the ground as she jumped into the air: a pivoting somersault, arms flowing gracefully around her axis as she evaded the sudden arrow—all the while, laughing!

_Time to bite!_—she'd land within my range—fierce instinct, enraged intent, swung the axe behind me! Up to go down!

Her feet landed, her body bent—arms: a noble bow—and she lifted her emotionless steel-expression to face me: slits hiding merry eyes and glee, and my axe swung **Down **to **End **her wretched existence! My heartbeat pounded in my ears!

Heartfelt laughter through a pirouette! Broken stone turned gravel! It smattered all around like hail as my axe smashed rock in place of her feet! And just as suddenly, my axe went heavy and pulled down my arms: her foot on my handle pressing it down as she went up—another whistling sound flew past where she'd been but she was already above me—her hands on my shoulders and her feet straight up: tap-tap, her hands went as she twirled for them to change places!

Fast, but foreseeable: she'd land behind me! Left-arm pull, right-arm swing—torso tore through the work—"behind me!" Still, everything inside felt belated, even her laughter sounded slower: Perception increased by drenaline and guile!

So sharp the swing my teeth hurt from grinding, a dull pain flared up inside my already burning shoulder: ignore it! Strike true! But gone she was: down under. Moving beneath my swing, a swift shadow turning: bending away like grass avoiding the touch of wind—fluent and with grace. Another swing, another twang, and again she evaded both my axe and the arrow—rolling off to my right as they bit through the air whereas she had been.

Infuriating. Enraging! Such an unorthodox fighting style: like swatting at a fly! **Keep still!**

Her roll, as fluid as a stream and she was up on her feet to face me just as quick and gracefully. Hands reaching behind her back, she took up a stance and drew two thin, curved, daggers. That glimmer, _silver_. For the first time, she looked serious—but I doubt she was behind that mask of hers.

"_You're_ getting a bit annoying…" she said, there was not a trace of hostility in her words: a parent's brief annoyance towards a child would hold a darker bite. The moment of distance forced an aggravating moment for a breather of rancid taste, one we had no intention to prolong as every muscle ached to kill and, again, my legs moved on their own—and _they _**did **carry hostility. "…let's fix that."

She shot towards me, posture low and daggers in front. Reflex kicked in, tearing at my shoulder as my swing took form to split her rapid path! Breasts reflecting torch-colored gold, I'd bite right through them! The moment of bloodthirsty contact! Vengence fullfilled!

She suddenly went lower, sliding on her knees as her torso and head fell back. My axe nipped at her plated chin as she slid under my swing and disappeared behind me out of my field of view. Anticlimactic, furious **rage **at my miss, my mind demanding the imposible; to turn and find her: screames of all hatereds and all curses behind the roaring wolf in my ears!

A burning heartbeat pounded hard in my chest. A heartbeat that didn't feel like my own, rebbelling inside of my body: for again I had missed! Still, my swing continued, it's weight tearing me through the motion as I turned with its movement, continuing into a second assault! But again my axe swung through empty air behind me, and my insides roared at her absence! Bloodshot vision and foaming teeth, my eyes set on her running back! Was she _fleeing_? **Not this time!**

Insides split—one part infuriated, one part excited—craving her demise: _the call of the hunt!_ It's what **we **do! And frantically we set off after her.

She jumped forward, away from me,, sideways summersault as she twisted through the air: evading what was now shooting straight for me. Barely had I seen it before it hit point-blank in my chest: splintering against my chest plate as it pushed me aside and a sharp pain above my neck forced me to a knee and the stone floor suddenly became my view as it deprived me of my balance. A sharp scream and delighted laughter filled my ears, I could taste warm blood filling up in my mouth: a shard of wood piercing my chin, stabbing painfully at the bottom of my tongue through the floor of my mouth.

My claws scraped at the floor as I fought to push myself up, axe still clenched in the other. My vision flickered between blurry and black and my body felt shaking, tearing—the taste was overwhelming—heartbeats going rampant: my wolf **raging **with a thirst for more, lapping ferociously at the **dark **taste in my mouth as he fought to escape his prison of flesh—howling for blood not mine.

"Not so quick on you're feet this time, are you?" I heard her speak in the distance. That enraging _giggle _in her voice only rattled my wolf even further. ¨Side still hurts?…¨

_No! _I pushed him back with rage, still feeling the skin on my back stretching; joints seconds from popping._ Stay put… just a little while longer. She's mine, not yours! __**Mine!**_

"…and how's that leg? I didn't kick _that _hard."

"Fuck you."

_**Back!**_The tremors in my muscles soothed from **damn near tearing**to a **hardened pounding**, my vision reclaimed _some _shaking piece of focus as his howling slowly went to growling: vibrating within my bones. As good as it gets, I got on my feet and tore the splinter out of my jaw: ignoring the sharp sting as the jagged piece ripped through flesh.

_¨Fuck you?¨ _Who?…

She was standing above something with her back against me, carelessly tossing something aside. Sounded to be made of wood as it landed on stone, echoing. A bow? The string was cut.

A vague picture in my mind, flickering behind yellow rage and pain. It came back to me, faintly: she wasn't standing above something, she was standing above _someone_: Aela. Aela was here. How had it slipped my mind? How had I forgotten?! No… how had I allowed _Him_ to repress it? _Him… _Had I let him loose, he would have devoured her as well in his blind rage. _Our _blind rage.

"Ha! ¨fuck me?¨ Well, go ahead! You can. You know you can! After all, that leg'll heal awfully quick if you turn…"

_¨You're _a bit annoying.¨ Shooting for me. Dodging to go past… suddenly, my head didn't feel as simpleminded as before: A bit more like my own. How she so effortlessly had placed me between Alea and herself. Used Alea against me. She never aimed for _me_, did she? She aimed for _Aela_.

"…and I'd like it _soo _much if you did."

Did she really think so little of me?! To save me for **last**?!

"KREV!" I roared from anger my own!

"And 'lo and behold,' you can speak again," she responded, looking over her shoulder with that 'lack of a smile' faceplate of hers, looking at me with emotionless slits for eyes, "How disappointing. I liked the _snarling _part of you so much more—all ferocious, and _excitingly _angry. Yes… "a dismissive jerk of her shoulders, "I liked that part of you more." the words leaving her lips, they ended with a sigh. A **sigh**! It… made me mad! Again the tearing flared and I became aware of the dog-teeth poking at the insides of my lips! **A Sigh!?**

"Now!" Aela shouted from the floor.

"Ohou!" Krev let out, turning her head and jumping away as Aela made her move for the brief distraction Krev's dialogue had given. Yet she had instinctively dodged the dagger that Aela so sharply had aimed to split and bite her calf!

Adrenaline kicked open my eyelids—I took the opportunity—yet, again, my body moved before thought did! She was still in the air as I leaped forward and my grip clenched my axe like never before as muscles made it swing: her feet wouldn't touch the ground before it'd strike! Don't get up, Aela! **Or you'll die!**

Axe tore violently trough air, aiming for her decent. Yet she dodged… in midair, she dodged. I saw it, she was fast but I saw it: like a cat turning through a fall: a clear turn of her head, a twist of her shoulders, and her arms and body followed, swayed, after her movements—if my axe was wind, her body was snow. Her back arched as she bent over my axe and her legs followed through with the motion—and **again **she eluded eternal steel with grace: slipping through like white weaseling **shun**—upsidedown, her arm swung for my head, her dagger aimed to cut my throat. Mid-swing, my body moved on its own: head shooting back, bending aside, to evade her attack, still, I felt it nip the side of my neck as she fell out of my view. The floor felt slippery under my feet and I almost lost my balance as my body worked against the swing of my axe, pulling me in the opposite direction. But with effort, I quickly regained myself as I heard her land to the floor, shifted my axe upward and turned: I'd end her before she got up!

She lied flat on her back, lifting her hands to her ears, as I aimed my axe—I'd split her by her waist!—and swung down! Instantly, she lifted her legs, knees to her chest, and shifted—rolled—her bodyweight onto her shoulders just as my axe smashed stone beneath her, not an inch from her tailbone. Unaffected for the gravel smattering her backplate she jumped up—over my axe—with a kick up and landed on her feet. She spun on her feet, a dancer's pirouette, with her curved daggers coming for me like the sharp claws of a feline.

I'm too tall to duck so backward I bent, ripping the double-edged axe _upward _from the floor—aiming to cut at her armpit—as I dodged. Yet again, she evaded, jumping aside into a roll away from both Aela and me.

Hair in my eyes and blood in my mouth I, once again, watched her roll up on her feet. Didn't think I'd appreciate some distance, but other than the burning stiffness of my muscles; the wound in my chin pulsated painfully with every heartbeat and there was a sharp pounding pain in my shoulder. My shoulder? I hadn't imagined it earlier, but it wasn't ¨_rust._¨ How long since I took that axe to it? Not even two months: the tendon still hadn't healed, not completely. Screw it, I spat a mouth of blood and steadied the gip on my axe—setting my mind to ignore it for the fraction of time she'd allow.

Allow? Why had she taken up distance? Retreated, if only for a moment? Now that I thought of it: she wasn't laughing anymore. Don't tell me—the trace of a bloody grin taking shape on my lips—I almost got her? Then don't let her breathe, that inside voice said, don't give her time to regain the upper hand!

Insides reflaring with strenght, singleminded with a yellow thirst for blood, I charged: axe prepared by my side as it took swing the instant she fell within its deadly reach. She dipped, and my axe tasted nothing but the unsatisfying air above her head. But I wasn't about to let her recover: I turned my swing for its second charge to bite, yet again it bit naught as she hopped away. She may be small but she was vicious like a viper as her curved daggers stung and bit for me between openings: reflex and armor alone kept her at bay.

"You're getting slower," she teased as she evaded another attack, her laughter returning through a small growing giggle as enjoyment again began resonating through her body language.

It was beyond infuriating, but she was right. I couldn' even get close to her anymore, and my shoulder only grew worse with every swing: felt like shewing through a bad toothache, systematically sapping away my strength with numbing pain. Soon, I won't even be able to ignore the sharp pain, before it'll completely render me useless.

She jumped back again as my axe brutally kissed the floor: sliding briefly on her feet as one hand anchored to the stone. I felt out of breath, enough that it forced me to allow the axe-head to rest on the floor—if only for the fraction of a second. I had forgotten what it felt like when one's body decided to fail you: brutally annoying! Enraging!

She lifted her head and looked straight at me through those slits, "My turn," she said in a self-satisfied, high pitched, voice. Again, hiding a smile behind flat mouthless steel; I could hear it. And every inch of me had **had enough**!

She shot toward me, coming in sharp. Laughing. Somehow, she seemed taller than before. Confident.

No time for my axe to keep kissing the ground, I needed to defend myself! But just as I was about to lift it, my shoulder gave away: muscle cramping up like broken rubber—scorching heat burning painfully up to my neck. My axe wouldn't move!

Screw this! Screw it for its uselessness: an anticlimactic attempt of action! She was closing the distance to fast for me to act: axe too heavy, shoulder rebelling in ripping defiance! She was in the air now, jumped, dagger ready to plunge at me. I saw no other choice but to let go! I don't need it!

Laughter of joy ringing sharp as she imperatively penetrated personal space. Eternal steel jouncing as it fell to the cobblestone floor: its echo hidden behind the pressuring sound of adrenaline forcing blood through my ears. I see it! A sharp pain, stinging before it burned, as silver broke skin: bone and all!

It pained. Her dagger through my hand, and my hand clenched shut. She was **Mine**! Caught in my bleeding grip! And before her laughter ceased, my right hand had already risen—**ignore the bloody shoulder!**—and clenched for the strike! A hard punch in my side: right waist muscles clamping at the sting—**ignore that too! Bite through it!**

She laughed as my fist shot for her face: rage alone nearly breaking the teeth in my mouth for my intent! Her head shot back, body violently following by the collision, laughter instantly turning silent at the second of impact! Punching steel in rage: my hand inevitably took more damage han her face.

But she didn't fall over, stumbling on her heels for balance. Because shooting back or not, her dagger was still pierced through my palm, and her hand was still clenched within my clawed grip! Unless I allowed it, she was going **nowhere**! And so I pulled her back up before her knees decided to fold! Righ hand ready for seconds—bite through the pain—as her face once again aligned with my fist!

I felt my hand break against her plated smile as I poured every ounce of hatred, every inch of rage, **Every Single Drip of Lustful Vengence** into my punch! Every fiber in my body that hungered for her demise existed within the force of that single punch! And again she shot back with force enough that I lost my grip, and she of mine, as she fell heavily yet silently to the floor. She wasn't laughing anymore, and that's the way it should be!

I lifted my hand before she even had time to squirm, her dagger through it like a fisherman's hook. I ripped it out as I set to end her! Tossed it aside as I stepped forward! The smell of my blood. Overwhelmed by the sudden recurring sting in my side: red burning razor prodding, no, stabbing the side of my abdomen, I looked down. Her second dagger stabbed right in between the gap of my chest plate and backplate: just like Aela's wound. _That punch from earlier._

But screw that too, I thought as I ripped it out! I don't care if I so bleed to death: she's mine! Served before me like dead fish on a stone plater!

Again, the sound of metal hitting the floor echoed through the room, almost hidden behind the sound of torches, as I set for her, dropping down as I mounted her lying body. She was before me, and my wolf howled loudly, **ferociously**, as he **begged **me to rip her apart. And, ironically enough, me and myself wanted the exact same thing! Vibrated for it as my shacking hands searched for her throat! Fingers slithering around her soft tiny neck. And clenched shut! Nails digging into her skin! Foaming blood dripping from my mouth, a thin stream from the wound in my jaw flowing onto her chest plate! Streakes of dark blood rippling on her golden breasts.

I felt it. Craved it. Wanted it! My knuckles were white for the greed they held over her death! And I heard it! The soft gasps and gags for air behind her metal plate, _choking on air_! there was ringing in my ears! Eyes almost popping out of my skull for the desperate madness growing within!

This is it! I'd laugh, but truth be told the only sound I know could hear was the blood shacking in my skull, my own teeth grinding. Only a moment more and it'd be over! Finally! I'd avenge them! I'd...

But then, my knuckles got their color back… and my grip slowly loosened. They even left her neck and her gagged choking turned into metallic coughing as her hands briefly slapped my sides before they found room to comfort her throat. My heated insides soothed.

I didn't let go because of regret, because of sympathy, empathy, pity, kindness, or any other kindhearted reason. Not at all—not at all! Quite the opposite! I let go for one reason alone: I wanted to see the moment life left her eyes! And so my fingers reached for her chin, dug beneath the edge of her plate, and found grip.

_Why would someone so prone to emotion, wear an emotionless helmet? Why would someone who so often laughs, hide her smile? What does a true monster look like?!_

And so I ripped it off, revealing her face!

She gasped as it went off, a sound of relief more than displeasure: her lungs desperately pulling in air through a freshly strangled throat. But as she drew that one life regaining breath, she turned her eyes on me. Blue eyes above a bleeding nose.

She stunned me. For a second, her appearance pushed me back as I sat on her stomach. Surprise and shock as my pulse calmed: a sudden decrease in mouth-bleeding.

She… was beautiful.

Long silk-blond hair flowing out in all directions over the stone floor, like lush branches from a tree made out of a spring river. Smooth pale skin that would make snow envy the sky for having stars. Pouty narrow lips, small yet rich, as if they could whisper the world to sleep. A small button nose that begged to be kissed even though it bled. And a strong yet feminime jawline. But most of all, her eyes defined her beauty. Her eyes, for they held the clear blue color of a midday winter sky, and at the same time, the deep green of getting lost in a lonesome well. Eyes that effortlessly held the glitter of spring dew in morning grass in tandem with the blameless innocence of a happy child.

"Hi," she said softly, looking at me as if she was speaking to her lover.

¨Hi?¨ she said. ¨Hi?!¨

It… angered me. Infuriated me! And again he flared up inside—how could he not?! For how could someone so evil… so **Cruel**! Be so beautiful?!

And again the blood began to flow as **again **my finger wandered over her chest plate, mind dulling anger growing from wrath as they again sought out her throat, and they found it. Again, slowly, firmly clenching shut around her slender throat. And as I again squeezed, the enjoyable sound of her gasping for air returned. **Prey**: gagging and choking and wriggeling in my hands!

Everything was shaking but my broken hands, for, broken or not, they alone had a purpose. Every sensation of pain in my body soothed, for my hands gripped the sole thing that brought comfort. For some reason, my eyes watered up. But these were tears of joyous rage! For now, I'll get to see life leave her. The comfort I've been seeking: I'll get to see life leave her! I'll get to see life leave her! **I'll get to see life leave her!**

Fingers and bloody palms pressing onto her windpipe as claws dug into her skin! Piercing as small streams of blood begun to sipper! Her deviously blue eyes rolling up her skull as she gasped for the air I'll **Never **allow her again! Her hands desperately wrestling with my forearms to get free, but she had the strength of a woman. Sure, she was strong: but speed and agility alone was her overwhelming strength. The only real trick she had. And the moment I had caught her in my hand—or she caught me—she had lost: for she was a woman! And she only had the strength of one!

Bones through my fingers and knuckles gone white, I knew I could crush her throat the second I decided to, breake her neck with a single twitch: but I wanted to take my time. Yet inside, things took a turn for the worse; working to tear out from within, howling to bite through!

My wolf demanded her flesh! Raged for the wet touch of her flesh! Demanding is taste! And suddenly, my hands clench harder! Against my will, they pressed down, hard enough to rid her of breath—but I fought it, I fought it enough not to permanently steal it!

I felt it. I felt him from within! Clawing! Tearing! I felt everything she deserved and how easy it'd be! How easy it'd be to push down and finnish her off! How easy it'd be to **slit **open her throat with my bare claws and feel the blood flow between my fingers as she gargled the melody of death! How easy it'd be to turn my teeth upon her windpipe and rip it out of her throat! Tear it open! I could grab her head and squeeze it 'till her eyes shot out of their sockets! All as easily as I could rise up and lift my foot to stomp in her skull with my heel!

It'd all be so easy! So easy, but still I fought it as my fingers continuesly clenched around her nacked neck and lips took on the color of deep blue! The whites of her eyes broke open with red! All of that! And more! Would be so easy! For she **deserved **it!

No… my true mind said, wresteling aside the primal beast. She didn't deserve it… for it'd be easy. After everything she's done, she didn't deserve 'easy.'

And again, my fingers slowly loosened. For it'd be _too _easy. All of that. All that imagined and all that conjured by my bloodthirsty within: I could still push him back. And so my fingers loosened their grip. And with certainty, I slowly rose up on my feet.

**For She did't deserve 'Easy'**

"Aeal," I commanded, eyes set on the semi-conscious _Demon _on the floor, I didn't care if Aela lied crippled behind me or not, but she better get over her when I tell her—and I did hear movement, so I continued my words: "Hold her down… And **strip **her."

"¨Strip her?¨" A sudden hoarse giggle rose. She could still speake? "So this is where the fun beg!—"

A swift kick to her head forced silence upon her! At least so I thought, before her gleeful laughter refilled the room. At least her nosebleed had taken on a grander flow, I could find some distant comfort in that. In preparation for what I had in mind…

"Aela!" I repeated, still with my eyes burned onto the creature, seemingly clinging to life with laughter alone! And sure enough, Aela limped into view, grabbing Krev by her wrists as she kneeled down by her head.

"I said ¨strip her!¨" I stated as I turned to look over the floor. For this, I needed my axe. Where was it?

For she didn't deserve easy, after all, I recently had some _practice_… And the prep work's easy:

**Off with the feet!**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised this to be the final chapter,  
I'm afraid I had to break that promise.
> 
> Because:  
1\. This chapter's already way longer than intended.  
2\. I've kept you waiting long enough as is.  
3\. When I wrote that final line, I knew it was the perfect ending to the chapter.
> 
> I don't know when the next chapter will be complete, but it won't take as long as this one did. For it'll be a lot shorter.


	38. In the end, I won.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally.
> 
> The last chapter of my first book is now out.  
And it feels amazing.
> 
> Two years! imagine that.
> 
> Hind's up. my BETA is on a vacation on this one,  
so I do hope Grammarly alone is sufficient.
> 
> (Spelling/grammatical errors might occur.)  
(I'll update the chapter when she's done her magic.)
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
> Enjoy.

Daggers from the Skyforge reflected torchlight as they snipped through leather straps and cloth alike, cutting fabric like scissors did hair. A woman's hands forcefully pressed her down while the man's violently reached to rip away armor, to tear away clothes. Breast-shaped chest plate clanking to the floor: backplate soon to follow: ripped out from underneath. Clawed through clothing and cut open garments, 'till nothing but the pale skin of a Nord woman remained to be seen. Smooth, soft, naked, and scentless. Scentless… truly a werewolf hunter. She smelled of nothing. And whenever her rebellious struggle for survival proved too much, broken knuckles and armored feet reminded her of the opposite: she'll never rise again.

Yet she laughed. Blood in her hair she laughed: sparkling joyous laugher. Heartfelt, happy, rich, and infectious—laughter spawned from a bleeding mouth—echoing throughout the stone-covered room, flooding and flowing continuously down the corpse covered hallway. Laugher that sounded like _victory_ but in truth hid _defeat_! Was the motivator denial, or purely mania?

So much blood, stabbing at all my senses. Constant _taste _of thick runny pain; _sight _of red reflecting crimson; _scent _of copper steaming iron; _feel _of sticky splashing wet. It was all dark. Painful. Most of it's mine, one hand: shredded and pierced, the other: fractured and broken. Side of my waist burning as 'warm' oozed out and ran down my thigh. But it didn't hurt, not really: crazed anger, split with intent, still held the pain at bay, forced it aside for one final purpose! And once that final purpose has been completed—the sole reason for me still standing—the pain can kill me for all I care. So yes… most of it was mine. But that won't stay true for long; for my axe had returned to my bloodied hands; risen high above me.

This shouldn't be easy, for she didn't deserve easy… yet it was: off with the feet.

Vengeful and enraged eyes set, mentality split and broken: axe crashed down. And shattered bone.

A sudden high shriek and her _laughter turned into cries_. **A **cry; high-pitched and sharp; shocked and pained, but _brief _in its existence before it so easily returned into laughter.

But not for long, shortlived, as, again, my axe rose from the floor. Mechanically; fluid; firmly, it rose. A rising pole. Almost by itself, it rose: **finally **dripping with the blood that so many times had eluded its taste—fleed its bite. And as it again stood tall, risen above my head! It plunged to taste her once more.

And her _cries turned into screams_: Excruciating: Heart-shattering yet beautiful. Eyeopening even in its echoes. Emotional in its prolonged rawness. And Intimate in its pure and honest touch.

For what was her laughter but a lie to reinforce her attire? What was her cry but surprise at the stricken event? And what was her scream but realization for the truth?

Yes. Realization:

For fragile is the construct of make-believe, and cruel is the consequence of reality.

A solid window turned shattered glass; it all comes crashing down, revealing nothing but empty air and a dangerous lack of safety; it's what one gets for hiding behind facade for so long: a mask void of emotion. A mask granted purpose, not to hide emotions for they showed clearly, but too safely keep them locked away. Locked behind cold steel, as not to spill into the world: for who could truly handle that? Insanity let loose: the purest of joys for defilement, sacred in their horrid form. Innocent and clean, honest and gay, youthful and pure. It was all of that and more, yet in the eyes of others, it is only disturbing, wrong, twisted, and contorted.

For however the sabercat tears at the deer, its actions can never be considered evil. That is the nature of things. And through nature, her actions were nothing but natural: as she now lay, as nature intended.

And now that her mask's dropped, the masquerade's ended, all that's left is a naked fiend of a woman. A degenerate so savagely open to all the elements; bare and blatant; restrained of modesty; void of pride—yet she showed no shame. She still portrayed her sadistic nature: element: glee and laughter.

But in my eyes: keepers of primordial hatred apartheid my own, I saw only opportunity: she'll get what she deserves. And we won't stop until we've made her justice.

A pathetic display of a being. So delicate and fragile, lacking even the ability to stand on her own two feet—no more jumping around. Ha! Because she no longer has feet! How **fun **isn't this.

"Hush-hush-hush," I said: words hardly of my own making. But yet they came between her hysteric spurs of a laugh as I threw my axe aside and went down. Reached for her severed feet. And took the disconnected pale dead pieces in my hands to cast them out of my way!

"Cloth," I said—growled—reaching for the cut and torn clothing Aela hastily brushed off the floor to slide toward me before she returned her hand to press down on that violently naked shoulder, tearing for her cackle chuckle.

Blood pulsating out of her wriggling limb as I held it down and wrapped it up with the cloth: I **won't **have her bleed out until I'm done! I'll **take **my time, as she did Ysolda!

One bleeding thing's done, another bleeding thing to go. And **still**, she's laughing. Laughter combined shrieking! I **despised **the _music _she sang!

**There**! All wrapped in preparation to drag out on the _ordeal _she's about to **forfeit **with **plead**! I'll make her **beg **before it's over! If it'll ever be?

I turned my eyes for my prize—her painfully joyous face—felt her naked legs limbs scrub against my scrotum as I scooched up her soon-to-be-dead body: bloody handprints left on pale-white skin as my hands besieged her beauty in aim for vengeance!

She _is _beautiful: A joyous face burning with laughter even in pain, smooth white skin covered in blood, perky breasts, and a firm body down to her… I was about to think ¨toes,¨ But that's beyond my humor. Even her pubes held a _golden_ charm.

All of it wasbeautiful. Too beautiful… So I'm about to destroy it!

Ooh, how we moved: left hand reached for that skin beneath her navel, just above those golden pubes of hers, _skin-tight ripped _to her muscles, yet our sharp nails fond grip within a slim fold: pierced—**bit**—through the skin, and **begged **to ripher open!

**Withstand**! I told ourselves in fragile rage, for this requires delicacy. Savored!

Fumbling, my right hand found the dagger by my belt and drew it for her skin. It stopped as it touched her belly, its tip poking, to the point of cutting as it pressed down on her belly.

My left hand hurt as it gripped, pierced as our blood run down the side of her waist. My right hand ached for its broken bones as it clenched the dagger with **full **intention to cut!

So why couldn't I?

The blade had stopped. Hands clenched in anger as the blade's edge felt stuck against her skin. We intended to cut her! Yet I had stopped? Why?

"What?!" she said, let out, **laughed **with degradation.

We looked up, met her face across her naked body: hysterical yet enthusiastic, wide eyes atop a twisted smile of insane glee.

"Is this is your first time?!" she continued, a sick nod between clenched teeth as she met our eyes, yet _her _eyes held stern and hard anticipation. "Don't be nervous! Just **do **it! **Do it**! Nothing turns me off like a guy without confidence!"

Those eyes of _pleasure _and _glee… _so 'set, ' piercingly aware. Mania. Craze.

¨Just do it…¨

Yet she **had **said those words. And it was enough to push us over the hair-thin threshold of _that_ remaining border! For, kill! my mind said, Murder! common sense shouted, and **Avenge! **my heart told! So much more than any inflicted seek for honor could possibly demand ravaged within me to burnt an end to her wretched existence!

"Don't—" Aela quietly interrupted split thoughts far too late to be heard: for thosewords had gotten to me: dug inside, probed our mind for actions to be!

Yes. Her words were said and actions proven as my hand clenched onto her skin and the dagger _slid _across her stomach: let's cut open the price!

A whisper in the back of my dull-dark mind: _¨For it is rarely worth the price,¨ _let's see about that!

It cut! Clean, and straight across. Pelvis bone to pelvis bone, it cut—not too deep now, trough the skin only, no need to_ ruin the meat._

She yelped, screamed, a sharp sound of pain—a shrill behind a squeal—through gritted teeth for the sting of my blade, and before her teeth parted to fully let out her voice, the blade turned and cut down the outside of her thigh. We scurried back as the cut harshly dug its way down to her knee—slit, slit, slit—a clean line of thin growing red on her pale Norther skin.

Hands exchanged dagger, the other side.

Mouth finally opened and scream she did. All of it. Her legs kicked beneath me and Aela pushed her down as her body rebelled at my second long cut. And as my dagger reached her second knee her scream, again, returned into laughter of madness and mania: desperate insanity leaving her lips. Frantically open eyes bulging for the ceiling as her deranged laughter sang throughout the room and echoed down the hall. Enjoyment!

Still, it didn't hinder us as our hands reached for the deep cut at her waist—claws finding grip beneath the warm dark blood to act out vengeance in its most ironic form: if Krev tortured with patient beauty and lustful graze, we'd torture with ruthless rage and horrid bloodthirst—and we ripped down!

Mania-laughter returned sudden scream: instantly drowning out the ripping sound of skin tearing from her flesh.

It came off so easy, so harshly—the fresher the ¨kill,¨ the easier the skinning—reveling red abdominal muscles and white-pink traces of tendons and fat. The _red _quickly darkened in its hue as bare flesh reacted to the open air: tiny vessels crying blood. Ooh, the smell:

So fresh.

Stomach's unveiled, re-steadied grip on fold-down skin to rip once more. Another morbid tear down her waist—repugnant and dreadful yet determined and set! Guess where the skin stuck? We took the dagger and **cut that part too!**

"Turn her over!" we growled—standing, crouching up—as hands reached for her leg to flip her.

Silently, stunned, Aela did as told against Krev's apathetic struggle at _pain _rather than _us_. She was neither laughing nor screaming now, only pained moans and whimpers left against her will as we turned her. Her hands fumbling air.

A new ¨canvas¨ naked for the work: dagger found greedful purpose once more: another effortless snit through her ridden exclaimed whimper—side to side—across a small tight lower back. The sound of metal hitting stone as I threw it aside after all the cuts were made: the dagger's purpose is no more.

Her hands reached for Aela's forearms, clenching them above her head as her face pressed down against the flat, cold, stone—gripping and clenching—she knew what was about to come. Fully.

Who anticipated it the most? We could already ¨taste¨ it.

Same, same! So tear her open! Ripp it off! Insides, upswing! Two cheeks, two hands: the pure symmetry of viral irony, how easily vengeance shall unfold. It¨ll be done, see it before us! Rip it out!

It happened… skin ripped away. No cry heard: pain forced upon her stunned silence. I wished to see her face: pressed onto the stone. Wonder what faces she's making?

I stood back as, with violent easy and effort, it riped off—like tearing off a too tight a pair of pants, riping. Even the bandages tore from her severed ankles, folding over, leaving her stumps bleeding warmth. Her body screamed for help far more than her throat now could: shock forcefully digging into her soul! If she even had one?

It didn't matter, she could clinch at Aela's arms all she wanted to, it changed nothing of our intentions: _we'd _make her suffer as she had done _her_! For this… **is **justice.

She didn't scream. She didn't scream as I stood behind her, holding her loose skin in my hands. She barely even moaned.

Had she passed out? Died?

But I did stand behind her. Holding her loose, pale, pink skin in my hand; one part of me wanted to shove it in her face and **show **her what we've done, and the other part of me… wanted to **eat **it. To rip her open with my nails and **dig **our teeth into her abdomen! But we didn't, for **I** wanted her to suffer!

Yes, I wholeheartedly hoped she felt what she'd inflicted. I hoped, and **begged**, the air itself **burned **against her open flesh. I **reared **at the stone beneath her to **bite **at her revealed muscles. I hoped **everything **that touched her inflicted pain. I… hoped she **suffered **for simply being alive!

A dull feeling running throughout our body as we looked upon her red display of hopeful agony. It felt somewhat calming.

It…. was beautiful.

Brutal. Unreal. Horrid… but she was beautifully displayed in the pain I hoped we'd inflicted

In its own sense of putid and nake purity she **is **beautiful: pure, naked, revealed, and soon to be abandoned. For I have turned her laughter into cries. Her cries into screams. And as soon as her screams admit plead, when she begs for death! We'll leave her… We'll deny her! We'll leave her to rot in her own pain and agony, anguish and torment! Yes… We'll **leave **her to drown in this pool of her own blood.

_As I promised you before._

But something was missing. The final _touch_. The completing detail.

I turned around and looked over the floor, eyes searching for the pair. There may not be any stakes of silver lying around, but there's silver alright: her daggers.

I went over for one as I saw it, continued for the other as I saw that: both of them still covered in my blood: a reminder of my forgotten pain.

Holding them both in my red-covered hand, I brought them over as I returned to her: dropping to my knees over her as my free hand reached her shoulder to flip her back once more.

Her expression was unconscious: a sleeping beauty.

But that only angered me more. How dare she look peaceful?!

I grabbed her breast with my left hand and squeezed it flat as I aimed the blood-covered dagger. It's tip against her skin. Pressing to pierce.

"Stop…" Aela suddenly said: silently, as if she didn't breathe.

"Why?" We said—felt like growled—looking up at her kneeling by Krev's head, still pressing down on her slack shoulders.

What reason could she possibly have for me to stop? Was it pity? I doubt it. Reluctance? Disgust? Hardly: she's seen far worse. Or, don't tell me, a _woman's pride_ then?

It was hard to make out what she felt. All her silver eyes showed me was _scare _and _worry_: two feelings I doubt she could feel.

"I'm…" she stared with a sudden firmer voice, not taking her eyes off of me, "I'm not one to speak against torture… but this? This is just cruel."

"Cruel?" we said, rekindled fires burning before they exploded: All spit and ears heating, shared eyes popping, and chest, bursting, "Cruel?! It's what **she **did! It's what she did to my wife! To **Ysolda**! She! Deserves **everything **we've done! and more…"

The ¨¨calm-before-the-storm¨ was the expression she showed. But I knew no storm was coming. After all, Aela didn't know. Not all of it. But **we** didn't care.

"…Be **lucky **Skjor was already **dead **when she began skinning **him**! For Ysolda wasn't! Be **lucky 'we' **were the ones to find her that time and **not **the other way around! For if **she'd **come for **you**, as she's done **me**, you'd **never** use the word **¨cruel!—¨**"

A peal of tiny laughter beneath our faces surprisingly interrupted us: I thought she had been unconscious. Dead even. Yet that single joyous laughter, peeling, was so heartfelt… honest… and warming. It was enraging. She let out the opposite of what I had hoped for: we had hoped for _pleads_!

"In the end…" she laughed, excitingly and open, "I **won!** I tamed him for you! And every time you call for him, you'll think of **Me**!" She laughed. With tears in her eyes she laughed, no way to tell if those tears were of _joy _or _pain_. All we knew, was that we **hate **it!

And that rage took over as we squeezed that breast flat once more and aimed that curved dagger to pierce it! Broken hands ruled by fury!

A picture, movement, in the upper corner of our eyes as Aela swiftly let one hand go of Krev's shoulder, reached behind her back, and drew her dagger to bring it to Krev's throat.

And the laughter turned silent as she slit it.

"No!" instinct roared. Twitching and snapping, we let go of the dagger as our arm moved on its own accord—buttons popping open and my Vambrace split and fell heavily to the floor: dark fur squeezing out from the already dark arm of the fur-suit—reaching for Aela: for she had **deprived **us of our prey and will **take her place!**

She tried to jump back, but her wounded leg wouldn't allow her, and our hand found a place at her troat: clawed fingertips touching behind her neck.

A gurgling sound beneath our feet as we rose: Krev shocking on her own blood.

All sharp fangs and gnarls as Aela's feet left the floor—what has she done!? Moon-Silver eyes turned deep-fire yellow—we'll **end **her!

Her arm moved accurately beneath my vision, fast, a sharp burning stab through my forearm: Skyforge steel piercing through.

My hand let go for the cramping pain, and she fell to the floor before we could react.

We hastily looked at our dark rugged-furred arm for the dagger straight through it, as Aela found footing on the floor, and ripped it out.

The steps forward felt more natural than any steps had ever done before: Kill. Slaughter. Deah!

_¨Vengeance served beneath my feet, no need to heed, for accursed rage, shall be my steed.¨_

Aela fumbled on her feet, scurrying back. Wounded. Away from us. A wounded girl ready for the taking.

¨Eyes on the prey, not the horizon!¨

"Stop!…" she pleaded, screamed, "…remember why we're here!" Eyes of dull-yellow, still, filled with the fear we begged to feed upon. "You're going **'feral,'**! she shouted: quickly rizing to a readied stance, her sword drawn on an injured leg. Moon-silver eyes: **still **holding _that _touch of fear and worry.

Everything was… My body felt freezing and heating at the same time. but somehow, I stopped. _He_ didn't, but _I_ stopped.

¨Feral,¨ her word hat hit me like a brick wall, ¨Remembe why we're here:¨ _vengeance!_ was it?! Was it done?

Something hard hit my knees: the stone floor. I don't… I? My hands?! I can't see!

The bones in my right arm felt like hot iron. Burning pain from ripped and torn muscles. A sharp sting up the sie of my neck. All voices and torment in my mind:

_Don't seek that power… It's rarely worth the price.  
Some can't separate the animal from themselves—so they turn, some, indefinitely.  
Anger is a double-edged sword.  
Don't worry about me, old man, I can wield it.  
It's not you, I worry about… but the boy._

"Aela…" I suddenly said, let out, looking down at my hands. What's happening? I don't—

Everything felt wrong: not because it hadn't, but because I finally, truly, thought of it. I never should've.

One hand looked normal on my lap—as normal as it could—the other one…. horrid: furred and clawed and torn apart. _Rigged _from what it used to be.

It wasn't _my _hand! Was it? Is it? Everything's blurry.

It's hard to describe the sensation of crying when raging hatred is so much more than beyond overwhelming: what am I?

But it was only one hand… or is it? I… I don't know.

I don't know _anything, _anymore.

"Aela…" I repeated, let out once again through a broke throat, looking over my shoulder at the body behind me. That semi-skinned corpse of horrid fragility. She never wore a ¨mask¨ did she? She was always _everything _she told herself to be. Even in the end. I hadn't killed her, I had _massacred _her, "…what? Have I done?!"

The most horribly honest person I ever met.

"Calm down!" she more than said. As I looked back at her, her eyes still showed fear as she stood back on that wounded legs, holding inured arms; wide open and Standback: she stood no chance against a werewolf, were I to turn.

"Calm down?" I asked, cried. Troat felt broke as I lifted my head, feeling don't-know-what as everything tore within me.

Did he want out? It didn't feel that way, not as it had done when I found Ysolda. Yet… everything felt wrong. Not painful, but wrong. Broken.

"Calm down," I repeated, silently to myself, trying to understand the meaning behind those words. But my mind raced: what do we want? Is it done? Are _**we**_done? Why are we here?

Why are we here?

For _vengeance_.

And we don't care if we die.

_I_ don't care if _I_ die. Me?

"It's okay," I heard her say.

It's okay? It is done. And strangely enough, the thick black fur protruding through the gaps between opened buttons slowly receded and drew back. It slowly drew itself back into my skin. I could feel the bones aching as the reluctantly shrank.

Why? Were we done? Were we? Are we?

My hands felt light on my laps, yet everything else felt heavy. Inside and out. I couldn't breathe, yet I did. "What have I done?" I repeated.

"We've avenged them," she answered.

But all I could see was my broken hands. ¨Them?¨ How? It doesn't. I don't understand. I don't want to understand.

"It… changes nothing," I said. because it didn't.

"It changes everything," she said.

"No…" I whimpered, "it doesn't," for how could it? "They're still gone."

"They're avenged."

"But… they're still gone."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ending Song:  
watch?v=QrBihZya6s4&ab_channel=Ghost-007  
(I feel the lyrics capture my fic perfectly)
> 
> Thank you all who've read my fic, and will continue reading my fic.  
But seriously, thank you. I've loved all the comments you've given me.
> 
> I do hope you've liked this story of mine, and even though  
the Companion arc  
now has ended, it doesn't mean my writing is done.
> 
> So keep your eyes open for  
The Dragonborn - book 2
> 
> That said:
> 
> I'd love to hear what you guys thought of my fic as a whole.
> 
> Favorite chapter?  
Favorite side char.?  
Least favorite?  
Why?  
and so on.
> 
> I'll try to only respond to comments with questions.
> 
> (I don't see a need to answer a ¨This was good¨ comment.)
> 
> None the less, I hope you enjoyed the read.
> 
> Also, I started a side project: ¨The murder of Wayrest¨
> 
> If you like my writing/story-telling, give that one a read as you wait for the beginning of my next book.
> 
> (Only 2/7 chapters so far.)
> 
> (Bit of a P.S. the first three lines of that Prophecy of mine has now passed. )


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